KATHRINA 


KATHBO1 


HER      LIFE      AND     MINE 


IN     A     POEM 


BY     J.     G.     HOLLAND 


Illustrations    by   W.   J.    HENNESSY     AND  C.     C.    GRISWOLD 
Engraved    by    W.   J.    LINTON 


NEW     YORK 
SCRIBNER,    ARMSTRONG   &   COMPANY 


MDCCCLXXVII 


I  Dedicate 


"K  ATH  RI  N  A" 


THE      W  0  R  K     OF      MY     HAND 


TO 


ELIZABETH 


THE      XV  T  F  E      OF      MY     HEART 


2230761 


I  N  D  E  X 


PACK 

A  TRIBUTE  i 


I'  A  R  T     I 

CHILDHOOD  AND  YOUTH 9 

COMPLAINT 63 

PART     II 

LOVK ....69 

A  REFLECTION 166 

I1  ART     III 

LABOR  .        .        .  .        .        .  .        .        . •      .     171 

DESPAIR 245 

PART     IV 
CONSUMMATION 251 


LIST    OF     ILLUSTRATIONS 


ENGRAVED  BY  W.  J.  LINTON 


Vignette        ..... 

Index    ....... 

Head-piece  to  List  of  Illustrations 
Tail-piece  to  List  of  Illustrations 
Head-piece  to  "  Tribute  "    . 
Tail-piece  to  "  Tribute  " 
Head-piece  to  sub-title,  Part  I.    . 
Tail-piece  to  sub-title,  Part  I. 
Head-piece  to  Part  I.  . 
"  Thou  lovely  vale  " 
"  Queen  village  of  the  meads  "    . 
"  My  mother's  pale,  fond  face  "    . 


Drawn  by 
W.  J.  HENNESSY 


C.  C.  GKISWOUJ 


W.  J.  HENNESSY 


Page 
Title 


7 
7 
9 
9 
ii 

12 


List  of  Illustrations 


"  From  kisses  which  were  pitiful  " 

"  I  kissed  a%vay  her  tears  "  . 

"  While  I,  in  boyish  frolic,  ran  before  " 

"  Or  gazing  where,  at   Holyoke's   verdant 

base "    . 

"  Found  her  with  warmest  welcome  " 
"'A  lusty,  downy,  handsome  household  pet  " 
"  Baptized  and  set  apart  to  poetry  "    . 
"  Fanning  my  face  " 
"  To  climb  the  goodly  eminence  " 
"  She  flew  into  my  arms  "    . 
"  The  sweet  word,  Mother  "... 
"  Save  here  and  there  a  snowy  drift  " 
"  The  touch  of  crafty  feet  upon  the  carpet  " 
"  I  clasped  the  precious  clay  "... 

Tail-piece 

Head -piece  to  "  Complaint  " 
Tail-piece  to "  Complaint "          .         .         . 
Head-piece  to  sub-title,  Part  II.  . 
Tail-piece  to  sub-title,  Part  II.     . 
Head-piece  to  Part  II.          .... 
"I  took  the  road  that  eastward  cleft  the 

town  " 

"  One  head  that  crowned  a  tall  and  slender 

form  " 

"  The  separated  bread  and  circling  cups  "   . 
"  Still  kneeling  like  a  saint  before  a  shrine  " 


Drawn  by 
W.  J.  HENNESSY 


C.  C.  GRISWOLD 
W.  J.  HENNESSY 


C.  C.  GRISWOLD 


W.  J.  HENNESSY 


Page 

16 
18 

19 

22 


-      27 

«           11 

•      32 

C.  C.  GRISWOLD 

•      37 

W.  J.  HENNESSY 

.       40 

" 

•       44 

C.  C.  GRISWOLD 

.       52 

W.  J.  HENNESSY 

.       58 

" 

.       60 

,i 

.       62 

11 

•       63 

" 

.      66 

,. 

.      67 

,1 

.      67 

,i 

.       69 

71 

74 
75 
78 


List  of  Illustrations 


XI 


*'  With  a  blushing  smile  she  turned  "    . 

"  And  in  the  low  hours  of  an  afternoon  "     . 

'•  One  with  her  work,  the  other  with  her 

book  " 

"  I  took  the  lady's  hand,  and  said  good-night " 

"  Like  silent  sails  upon  a  summer  sea  " 

"  Upon  its  tufted  velvet  we  sat  down  "' 

'•  And  there  he  sits  in  his  dumb  despair  "    . 

"  Slow  in  the  golden  twilight "     . 

"  And  in  the  star-sprent  river  lipped   the 

oars"    ....... 

"  She  lay — her  babe  upon  her  breast " 
"  My  home  held  all  my  world  "    . 
"  My  wife,  what  burden  now  " 

Tail-piece 

Head-piece  to  "  A  Reflection  "    . 
Tail-piece  to  "  A  Reflection  "... 
Head-piece  to  sub-title,  Part  III. 
Tail-piece  to  sub-title,  Part  III.  . 

Head-piece  to  Part  III 

"  He  gave  me  just  five  minutes  " 

"  She  sat  through  the  long  hour  " 

"  Oh,  father  !  see  !  there  is  your  name  " 

"  Then  she  rose,  and  kissed  my  forehead  " 

"  I  sought  the  bustle  of  the  street " 

"  But   I   could   only  kneel    and  bathe   her 

hands  with  tears  and  kisses  " 


Drawn  by 
\V.  J.  HENNESSY 
C.  C.  GRISWOLD 

\V.  J.  HENNESSY 


114 
119 
123 
13° 
134 

144 

153 
157 
161 

165 
1 66 
1 68 
169 
169 
171 

174 
196 

200 

234 
241 

243 


Xll 


List  of  Illustrations 


Drawn  by 

Page 

W.  J,  HENNESSY 

244 

Head-piece  to  "  Despair  "   . 

•     245 

Head-piece  to  sub-title,  Part  IV. 

"            " 

•     249 

Tail-piece  to  sub-title,  Part  IV.  . 

«            ti 

.     249 

Head-piece  to  "  Consummation  " 

«            ,< 

.     251 

"  And  mocking  me  "    

"            " 

,     252 

"  Again  I  trod  the  forest  paths  " 

C.  C.  GRISWUI.D 

.     259 

"The  sheen  of  multitudes  " 

W.  J.  HENNESSY 

.     263 

"  In  the  East,  tinged  with  the  golden  dawn  " 

C.  C.  GRISWOLD 

•     279 

Tail-piece  to  Kathrina          .... 

W.  J.  HENNESSY 

.     281 

KATHRINA 


A    TRIBUTE 

MORE  human,  more  divine  than  we — 
In  truth,  half  human,  half  divine — 

Is  woman,  when  good  stars  agree 
To  temper  with  their  beams  benign 

The  hour  of  her  nativity. 

The  fairest  flower  the  green  earth  bears, 
Bright  with  the  dew  and  light  of  heaven, 

Is,  of  the  double  life  she  wears, 

The  type,  in  grace  and  glory  given 

By  soil  and  sun  in  equal  shares. 


Kathrina 

True  sister  of  the  Son  of  Man  : 
True  sister  of  the  Son  of  God  : 

What  marvel  that  she  leads  the  van 
Of  those  who,  in  the  path  He  trod, 

Still  bear  the  cross  and  wear  the  ban  ? 

If  God  be  in  the  sky  and  sea, 

And  live  in  light  and  ride  the  storm, 

Then  God  is  God,  although  He  be 
Enshrined  within  a  woman's  form  ; 

And  claims  glad  reverence  from  me. 

So,  as  I  worship  Him  in  Christ, 

And  in  the  Forms  of  Earth  and  Air, 

I  worship  him  imparadised, 

And  throned  within  her  bosom  fair 

Whom  vanity  hath  not  enticed. 

O  !  woman — mother  t    Woman — wife  ! 

The  sweetest  names  that  language  knows  ! 
Thy  breast,  with  holy  motives  rife, 

With  holiest  affection  glows, 
Thou  queen,  thou  angel  of  my  life ! 


Kathrina 

Noble  and  fine  in  his  degree 

Is  the  best  man  my  heart  receives  ; 

And  this  my  heart's  supremest  plea 
For  him  :  he  feels,  a6ts,  lives,  believes, 

And  seems,  and  is,  the  likest  thee. 

U  men  !     O  brothers  !     Well  I  know 
That  with  her  nature  in  our  souls 

Is  born  the  elemental  woe — 

The  brutal  impulse  that  controls, 

And  drives,  or  drags,  the  godlike  low. 

Ambition,  appetite,  and  pride — 

These  throng  and  thrall  the  hearts  of  men 
These  plat  the  thorns  and  pierce  the  side 

Of  Him  who,  in  our  souls  again, 
Is  spit  upon,  and  crucified. 

The  greed  for  gain,  the  thirst  for  power, 
The  lust  that  blackens  while  it  burns  : 

Ah  !  these  the  whitest  souls  deflour ! 
And  one,  or  all  of  these  by  turns, 

Rob  man  of  his  divinest  dower ! 


Kat/irina 

Yet  man,  who  shivers  like  a  straw 
Before  Temptation's  lightest  breeze, 

Assumes  the  master — gives  the  law 
To  her  who,  on  her  bended  knees, 

Resists  the  black-winged  thunder-flaw  ! 

To  him  who  deems  her  weak  and  vain, 
And  boasts  his  own  exceeding  might, 

She  clings  through  darkest  fortune  fain  ; 
Still  loyal,  though  the  ruffian  smite  ; 

Still  true,  though  crime  his  hands  distain  ! 

And  is  this  weakness  ?  Is  it  not 

The  strength  of  God,  that  loves  and  bears 

Though  He  be  slighted  or  forgot 

In  damning  crimes,  or  driving  cares, 

And  closest  clings  in  darkest  lot  ? 

Not  many  friends  my  life  has  made  ; 

Few  have  I  loved,  and  few  are  they 
Who  in  my  hand  their  hearts  have  laid  ; 

And  these  were  women.  I  am  gray, 
But  never  have  I  been  betrayed. 


KatJirina 

These  words — this  tribute — for  the  sake 
Of  truth  to  God  and  womankind  ! 

These — that  my  heart  may  cease  to  ache 
With  love  and  gratitude  confined, 

And  burning  from  my  lips  to  break ! 

These — to  that  sisterhood  of  grace 
That  numbers  in  its  sacred  list 

My  mother,  risen  to  her  place  ; 

My  wife,  but  yester-morning  kissed, 

And  folded  in  Love's  last  embrace ! 

This  tribute  of  a  love  profound 
As  ever  moved  the  heart  of  man, 

To  those  to  whom  my  life  is  bound, 
To  her  in  whom  my  life  began, 

And  her  whose  love  my  life  hath  crowned  ! 

Immortal  Love  !     Thou  still  hast  wings 
To  lift  me  to  those  radiant  fields 

Where  Music  waits  with  trembling  strings, 
And  Verse  her  happy  numbers  yields, 

And  all  the  soul  within  me  sings. 


Kathrina 

So  from  the  lovely  Pagan  dream 
I  call  no  more  the  Tuneful  Nine  ; 

For  Woman  is  my  Muse  Supreme  ; 
And  she  with  fire  and  flight  divine, 

Shall  light  and  lead  me  to  my  theme. 


K  A  T  II  R  I  N  A 


P  A  R  T        I 


CHILDHOOD     AND     YOUTH 


•-•' 


PART     I 


CHILDHOOD   AND   YOUTH 


THOU  lovely  vale  of  sweetest  stream  that  flows 
Winding  and  willow-fringed  Connecticut ! 
Swift  to  thy  fairest  scenes  my  fancy  flies, 
As  I  recall  the  story  of  a  life 
Which  there  began  in  years  of  sinless  hope, 
And  merged  maturely  into  hopeless  sin. 


i  o  Kathrina 

O !   golden  dawning  of  a  day  of  storms, 
That  fell  ere  noontide  into  rayless  night ! 
O !    beautiful  initial,  vermeil-flowered, 
And  bright  with  cherub-eyes  and  effigies, 
To  the  black-letter  volume  of  my  life ! 

0  !    faery  gateway,  gilt  and  garlanded, 
And  shining  in  the  sun,  to  gloomy  groves 
Of  shadowy  cypress,  and  to  sunless  streams, 
Feeding  with  bane  the  deadly  nightshade's  roots, 
To  vexing  labyrinths  of  doubt  and  fear, 

And  deep  abysses  of  despair  and  death  ! 
Back  to  thy  peaceful  villages  and  fields, 
My  memory,  like  a  weary  pilgrim,  comes 
With  scrip  and  burden,  to  repose  awhile, — 
To  pluck  a  daisy  from  a  lonely  grave 
Where  long  ago,  in  common  sepulture, 

1  laid  my  mother  and  my  faith  in  God  ; 
To  fix  the  record  of  a  single  day 

So  memorably  wonderful  and  sweet 
Its  power  of  inspiration  lingers  still, — 
So  full  of  her  dear  presence,  so  divine 
With  the  melodious  breathing  of  her  words, 
And  the  warm  radiance  of  her  loving  smile, 
That  tears  fall  readily  as  April  rain 


Kathrina  1 1 

At  its  recall  ;    to  pass  in  swift  review 

The  years  of  adolescence,  and  the  paths 

Of  glare  and  gloom  through  which,  by  passion  led, 

I   reached  the  fair  possession  of  my  power. 

And  won  the  dear  possession  of  my  love, 

And  then — farewell ! 


Queen-village  of  the  meads 
Fronting  the  sunrise  and  in  beauty  throned. 
With  jewelled  homes  around  her  lifted  brow, 
And  coronal  of  ancient  forest  trees — 
Northampton  sits,  and  rules  her  pleasant  realm. 
There  where  the  saintly  Edwards  heralded 
The  terrors  of  the  Lord,  and  men  bowed  low 
Beneath  the  menace  of  his  awful  words  ; 
And  there  where  Nature,  with  a  thousand  tongues 
Tender  and  true,  from  vale  and  mountain-top, 


12 


Kathrina 


And  smiling  streams,  and  landscapes  piled  afar, 
Proclaimed  a  gentler  Gospel,  I  was  born. 


In  an  old  home,  beneath  an  older  elm — 
A  fount  of  weeping  greenery,  that  dripped 
Its  spray  of  rain  and  dew  upon  the  roof — 
I  opened  eyes  on  life  ;    and  now  return, 
Among  the  visions  of  my  early  years, 
Two  so  distinct  that  all  the  rest  grow  dim  : 


My  mother's  pale,  fond  face  and  tearful  eyes, 

Bent  upon  me  in  Love's  absorbing  trance, 

From  the  low  window  where  she  watched  my  play  ; 


Kathrina  \ 

And,  after  this,  the  wondrous  elm,  that  seemed 

To  my  young  fancy  like  an  airy  bosk, 

Poised  by  a  single  stem  upon  the  earth, 

And  thronged  by  instant  marvels.     There  in  Spring 

I  heard  with  joy  the  cheery  blue-bird's  note  ; 

There  sang  rejoicing  robins  after  rain  ; 

And  there  within  the  emerald  twilight,  which 

Defied  the  mid-day  sun,  from  bough  to  bough — 

A  torch  of  downy  flame — the  oriole 

Passed  to  his  nest,  to  feed  the  censer-fires 

Which  Love  had  lit  for  Airs  of  Heaven  to  swing. 

There,  too,  through  all  the  weird  September-eves 

I  heard  the  harsh,  reiterant  katydids 

Rasp  the  mysterious  silence.     There  I  watched 

The  glint  of  stars,  playing  at  hide-and-seek 

Behind  the  swaying  foliage,  till  drawn 

By  tender  hands  to  childhood's  balmy  rest. 

My  Mother  and  the  elm  !     Too  soon  I  learned 

That  o'er  me  hung,  and  o'er  the  widowed  one 

Who  gave  me  birth,  with  broader  boughs, 

Haunted  by  sabler  wings  and  sadder  sounds, 

A  darker  shadow  than  the  mighty  elm  ! 

I  caught  the  secret  in  the  street  from  those 

Who  pointed  at  me  as  I  passed,  or  paused 


1 4  Kathrina 

To  gaze  in  sighing  pity  on  my  play 

From  playmates  who,  forbidden  to  divulge 

The  knowledge  they  possessed,  with  childish  tricks 

Of  indirection  strove  in  vain  to  hide 

Their  awful  meaning  in  unmeaning  phrase ; 

From  kisses  which  were  pitiful ;  from  words 


Gentler  than  love's,  because  compassionate  ; 
From  deep,  unconscious  sighs  out  of  the  heart 
Of  her  who  loved  me  best,  and  from  her  tears 
That  freest  flowed  when  I  was  happiest. 

From  frailest  filaments  of  evidence, 

From  dark  allusions  faintly  overheard, 

From  hint  and  look  and  sudden  change  of  theme 

When  I  approached,  from  widely  scattered  words 

Remembered  well,  and  gathered  all  at  length 


»  Kat/irina  1 5 

Into  consistent  terms,  I  know  not  how 

I  wrought  the  full  conclusion,  nor  how  young, 

I  only  know  that  when  a  little  child 

I  learned,  though  no  one  told,  that  he  who  gave 

My  life  to  me  in  madness  took  his  own — 

Took  it  from  fear  of  want,  though  he  possessed 

The  finest  fortune  in  the  rich  old  town. 

Thenceforth  I  had  a  secret  which  I  kept — 

Kept  by  my  mother  with  as  close  a  tongue — 

A  secret  which  embittered  every  cup. 

It  bred  rebellion  in  me — filled  my  soul, 

Opening  to  life  in  innocent  delight, 

With  baleful  doubt  and  harrowing  distrust. 

Why,  if  my  father  was  the  godly  man 

His  gentle  widow  vouched  with  tender  tears, 

Did  He  to  whom  she  bowed  in  daily  prayer— 

Who  loved  us,  as  she  told  me,  with  a  love 

Ineffable  for  strength  and  tenderness — 

Permit  such  fate  to  him,  such  woe  to  us  ? 

Ah  !  many  a  time,  repeating  on  my  knees 

The   simple   language   of  my    evening   prayer 

Which   her   dear   lips    had    taught   me,  came   the  dark 


1 6  Kathrina 

Perplexing   question,    stirring   in    my   heart* 
A   sense    of  guilt,    or   quenching   all    my   faith. 
This,   too,    I    kept   a   secret.     I    had    died 
Rather   than    breathe   the   question   in    her   ears 
Who   knelt   beside  me.     I    had   rather  died 
Than   add   a   sorrow   to    the   load    she   bore. 

Taught   to    be   true,    I    played    the    hypocrite 

In    truthfulness    to   her.     I    had   no    God, 

No   penitence,    no   loyalty,    no   love, 

For   any   being  higher   than    herself. 

Jealous   of  all   to   whom    she   gave    her   hand, 

I   clung    to   her   with   fond    idolatry. 

I    sat   with    her ;    where'er   she   walked,    I    walked 

I   kissed   away   her   tears ;    I    strove   to   fill, 


Kathrina  \  7 

With    strange   precocity    of  manly    pride, 
And   more   than    boyish  tenderness,    the   void 
Which    death    had    made. 

I    could   not   fail    to   see 

That   ruth    for    me   and    sorrow   for   her   loss — 
Twin   leeches   at   her   heart — were  drinking   blood 
That,    from    her   pallid  features,    day    by    day 
Sank   slowly   down,  to    feed    the   cruel   draught. 
Nay,    more    than   this    I    saw,    and    sadly    worse. 
Oft   when   I    watched   her,  and    she   knew   it   not, 
I    marked   a   quivering   horror    sweep    her    face — 
A  strange,  quick  thrill  of  pain — that  brought  her  hand 
With   sudden    pressure   to    her   heart,    and   forced 
To    her   white    lips   a   swiftly   whispered   prayer, 
I    fancied  that    I    read    the    mystery  ; 
But   it   was    deeper   and    more   terrible 
Than    I     conjectured.     Not    till   darker   years 
Came   the    solution.  ' 

Still,    we   had   some   days 
Of  pleasure.     Sorrow  cannot   always  brood 
Over    the    shivering    forms  that    drink,  her    warmth, 

But    springs    to    meet    the    morning    light,    and  soars 

3 


i8 


Into    the   empyrean,    to   forget 

For    one    sweet    hour    the    ring    of  greedy    mouths 

That    surely    wait,   and    cry    for    her    return. 

My    mother's  hand   in    mine,    or   mine    in  hers, 

We   often   left    the   village   far   behind, 

Walking   the    meadow-paths    to   gather   flowers, 

And    watch    the    ploughman    as    he    turned  the    tilth, 

Or   tossed    his    burnished  share  into    the  sun 

At    the   long   furrow's    end,    the    while   we   marked 

The   tipsy   bobolink,   struggling    with    the  chain 

Of  tinkling   music    that   perplexed    his   wings, 

And   listened   to    the   yellow-breasted  lark's 

Sweet   whistle    from    the   grass. 


Glad    in    my  joy, 

My   mother   smiled   amid    these    scenes    and   sounds, 
And   wandered   on    with   gentle    step  and    slow, 
While    I.    in   boyish   frolic,   ran    before, 


K a  thrum  \ 

Chasing   the   butterflies,    or    in    her  path 

Tossing    the    gaudy    gold    ot    buttercups, 

Till    sometimes,    ere    we   knew,    we   stood    entranced 

Upc>"    the   river's    marge. 


Ever    the    spell 

Ot"   lapsing    water    tamed    my    playful    mood, 
And    1    reclined    in    silent    happiness 
At    the    tired    feet    that    rested    in    the    shade. 
There  through  the  long,  bright  mornings  we  remained, 
Watching   the    noisy    ferry-boat   that    plied 
Like    a    slow    shuttle    through    the    sunny    warp 
Of  threaded    silver   from    a   thousand   brooks, 
That    took   new   beauty    as   it    wound    away ; 


Or    gazing    where,    at    Holyoke's    verdant    base — 
Like    a    slim    hound,   stretched    at    his    master's    feet- 


2O  Kathrina 

Lay    the   long,   lazy    hamlet,    Hockanum  ; 

Or,    upward  turning,   traced    the   line   that    climbed 

O'er   splintered    rock   and   clustered    foliage 

To    the    bare   mountain-top  ;    then    followed   down 

The    scars    of  fire   and   storm,    or   paths   of  gloom 

That   marked    the   curtained    gorges,    till,    at   last, 

Caught   by   a   wisp   of  white,    belated    mist, 

Our   vision   rose   to    trace    its   airy    flight 

Beyond   the  height,    into   the   distant   blue. 

One    morning,    while  we    rested    there,    she    told 
Of  a   dear   friend    upon    the   other   side — 
A    lady   who    had   loved    her — whom    she   loved — 
And    then    she   promised   to   my   eager  wish 
That    soon,  across    the    stream    I    longed   to   pass, 
I    should    go   with   her   to   the   lady's    home. 

The   wished-for   day   came    slowly — came   at   last — 
My   birthday   morning — rounding   to   their   close 
The    fourteen    summers   of  my   boyhood's   life. 
The   early   mists   were  clinging  to  the   side 
Of  the   dark   mountain    as   we   left    the   town, 
Though    all   the   roadside    fields   were   quick   with    toil. 
In    rhythmic    motion    through    the  tiewy    grass 


Kathrina  2 1 

The  mowers  swept,  and  on  the  fragrant  air 
Was  borne  from  far  the  soft,  metallic  clash 
Of  stones  upon  the  steel. 

This   was    the   day 

"  So    memorably   wonderful   and   sweet 
Its  power   of  inspiration   lingers    still, — 
So   full   of  her   dear   presence,    so   divine 
With    the   melodious    breathing   of  her   words, 
And    the   warm   radiance   of  her   loving   smile, 
That   tears    fall    readily  as   April   rain 
At   its   recall."     And   with   this   day   there   came 
The   revelation   and   the   genesis 
Of  a  new   life.     In   intellect   and   heart 
I    ceased   to    be    a   child,   and   grew   a   man. 
By    one     long   leap    I   passed   the   hidden   bound 
That   circumscribed   my   boyhood,  and   thenceforth 
Abjured   all   childish    pleasure,  and    took   on 
The   purpose   and   the   burden   of  my   life. 

We   crossed   the   river — I,  as   in   a  dream  ; 
And    when    I    stood    upon    the   eastern    shore, 
In    the    full    presence    of  the   mountain    pile, 
Strange   tides   of  feeling   thrilled   me,  and    I    wept- 


2  2  Kathrina 

Wept,   though    I    knew    not  why.     I    could   have    knelt 

On    the    white    sand,   and    prayed.     Within    my    soul 

Prophetic    whispers   breathed    of  coming    power 

And    new    possessions.     Aspiration    swelled 

Like    a    pent    stream    within    a    narrow    chasm, 

That    finds    nor   vent    nor    overflow,   but    swirls 

And    surges    and    retreats,   until    it    floods 

The  springs    that    feed    it.     All    was    chaos    wild, — 

A    chaos   of  fresh   passion,   undefined, 

Deep  in    whose   vortices   of  mist  and   fire 

A   new   world    waited    blindly  for    its   birth. 

I    had   no  words    for   revelation  ; — none 

For   answer   when   my    mother   pressed   my  hand, 

And    questioned    why    it    trembled.     I    looked    up 

With    tearful    eyes,    and   met   her   loving    smile, 

And  both    of  us    were   silent,   and   passed   on. 

We    reached    at    length    the    pleasant    cottage-home 
Where   dwelt    my   mother's  friend,    and,    at    the   gate, 
Found    her   with    warmest    welcome  waiting  us. 


Kathrina  2  3 

She  kissed  my  mother's    cheek,  and  then    kissed  mine, 
Which   shrank,    and    mantled    with   a    new-born   shame. 
They    crossed    the    threshold  :    I    remained    without, 
•Surprised — half-angry — with    the    burning    blush 
That    still    o'erwhelmed    my    face. 


I    looked   around 

For    something    to    divert    my    vexing    thoughts, 
And    saw,    intently    gazing    in    my    eyes, 
From    his    long   tether   in    the   grass,  a   lamb — 
A    lusty,    downy,    handsome   household  pet. 


There   was    a  scarlet    ribbon    on    his    neck 
Which    held   a   silver   bell,    whose    note    I    heard 
First   when   his    eye    met   mine ;  for   then    he   sprang 
To   greet    me   with    a  joyous   bleat,    and    fell, 
Thrown    by    the    cord    that    held    him.     Pitying   him, 
I    loosed   his   cruel   leashing,   with    intent, 
After   a   half-hour's    frolic,    to  •  return 


24  Kathrina 

And   fasten   as    I    found   him  ;   but   my   hand, 
Too   careless    of  its   charge,    slipped   from    its   hold 
With   the   first   bound   he    made ;    and   with   a   leap 
He   cleared   the   garden   wall,   and    flew   away. 

Affrighted   at   my   deed   and   its   mischance, 
I    paused   a    moment — then   with    ready   feet, 
And   flush   and   final  impulse,    I    pursued. 

He,  held   the   pathway   to    the  mountain  woods, 

The   tinkle   of  his    bell   already  faint 

In    the   long  distance   he   had  placed  between 

Himself  and    his  pursuer.     On   and    on, 

Climbing   the   mountain   path,    he  sped   away, 

I    following   swiftly,    never   losing   sight 

Of  the  bright   scarlet    streaming    from    his    neck, 

Or    hearing   of  the   tinkle   of  his    bell, 

Till,  wearied    both,  and    panting    up    the   steep. 

Our   progress   slackened   to   a  walk. 

At   length 

He    paused   and   looked    at   me,  and   waited    till 
My   foot   had   touched   the    cord    he   dragged,   and   then 
Bounded  away,   scaling    the    shelvy  cliffs 


KatJirina  2  5 

That    bolder    rose    along    the    narrow  path. 

He    had   no    choice    but    mount.     I   pressed   him    close, 

And    rocks    and    chasms    were    thick    on    either    side. 

So,   pausing    oft,  but    ever    leaping    on 

Before    my    hand    could    reach    him,    he    advanced. 

Not    once    in    all    the    passage    had    I    paused 

To    look    below,   nor    had    I    thought  of  her 

Whom    I    had    left.     Absorbed    in    the    pursuit 

I    pressed    it    recklessly,   until    I   grasped 

My    fleecy    prisoner,   wound    and    tied    his   cord 

Around    my   wrist,  and  both    of  us    sank   down 

Upon    the    mountain  summit. 

In   a   swoon 

Of  breathless    weariness    how   long    I    lay 
I    could    not    know ;    but    consciousness    at    last 
Came    by    my    brute    companion,   who,   alert 
Among    the    scanty    browse,   tugged   at    my    wrist, 
And    brought    me    startled   to    my    feet.     I    saw 
In    one   swift    sweep   of  vision    where    I    stood, — 
In   presence  of  what    beauty   of  the  earth, 
What   glory    of  the    sky,   what    majesty 
Of  lofty   loneliness.     I    drew    the    lamb — 
The    dear,   dumb    creature — gently    to    my   side. 


2  6  Kathrma 

And   led   him    out    upon    the    beetling  cliff 

That   fronts   the   plaided   meadows,  and    knelt   down. 

When    once    the   shrinking,  dizzy   spell    was    gone, 

I    saw   below   me,   like   a  jewelled    cup, 

The   valley   hollowed    to   its   heaven-kissed   lip — 

The  serrate   green   against   the   serrate   blue — 

Brimming   with    beauty's    essence ;    palpitant 

With  a   divine   elixir — lucent  floods 

Poured  from    the   golden   chalice   of  the   sun, 

At    which  my   spirit   drank    with    conscious  growth, 

And   drank   again    with  still   expanding   scope 

Of  comprehension    and    of  faculty. 

1    felt    the   bud   of  being  'in    me    burst 

With    full,   unfolding   petals    to   a   rose, 

And    fragrant    breath    that   flooded   all    the    scene. 

By   sudden   insight   of  myself  I    knew 

That    I    was   greater  than    the    scene, — that   deep 

Within    my   nature   was  a    wondrous   world, 

Broader   than    that   I   gazed   on,   and    informed 

With    a  diviner   beauty, — that    the    things 

I    saw  were    but    the   types  of  those    I    held, 

And   that   above   them   both,   High    Priest   and    King, 

I    stood    supreme,   to    choose   and    to    combine, 


Kathrina  2  7 

And    build    from    that    within    me   and    without 
New   forms    of  life,  with   meaning   of  my   own. 
And    there    alone,   upon    the    mountain-top, 
Kneeling    beside  the    lamb,   I    bowed    my   head 
Beneath    the    chrismal    light,    and    felt    my   soul 
Baptized    and   set   apart    to    poetry. 


The   spell  of  inspiration   lingered    not  ; 

But   ere   it   passed   I    knew   my   destiny — 

The  passion    and    the   portion    of  my   life  : 

Though,  with  the  new-born    consciousness    of  power, 

And    organizing   and    creative   skill, 

There   came   a    sense   of  poverty — a   sense 

Of  power   untrained,  of  skill    without    resource. 

Of  ignorance   of  Nature   and    her   laws 


28  Kathrina 

And   language,  and   the   learning   of  the    schools. 
I    could    not    rise    upon    my   callow  wings ; 
But   lelt    that    I    must   wait    until    the   years 
Should   give   them   plumage,  and   the   skill    for   flight 
Be   won    by    trial. 

Then   before   me  rose 

The   long,  long   years   of  study,   interposed 
Between   me   and   the   goal   that   shone   afar ; 
But   with    them    rose    the   courage    to    surmount, 
And    I   was   girt   for   toil. 

Then,  for   the   first, 

My     eye   and   spirit,    that   had    swept   the   whole 
Wide   vision,  grew   discriminate,  and    traced 
The   crystal    river   pouring   from    the    North 
Its   twinkling    tide,   and    winding    down   the    vale, 
Till,    doubling    in    a    serpent    coil,  it  paused 
Before   the   chasm   that   parts  the   frontal   spurs 
Of  Tom    and    Holyoke ;   then    in   wreathing   light 
Sped    the   swart    rocks,   and    sought   the   misty  South. 
Across   the   meadows — carpet   for  the   gods, 
Woven    of   ripening  rye   and  greening  maize 
And    rosy    clover-blooms,   and    spotted    o'er 


Kathrina  29 

With    the    black    shadows    of  the   feathery    elms — 
Northampton   rose,    half  hidden    in    her   trees, 
Lifted   above   the    level    of  the   fields, 
And    noiseless    as    a    picture. 

At   my    feet 

The   ferry-boat,    diminished    to   a    toy, 
With   automatic    diligence    conveyed 
Its   puppet  passengers   between   the  shores 
That   hemmed   its   enterprise ;    and  one   low   barge, 
With    white,    square    sail,    bore   northward    languidly 
The   slow  and    scanty   commerce   of  the  stream. 

Eastward,    upon    another   fertile   stretch 
Of  meadow-sward   and   tilth,   embowered   in   elms, 
Lay   the   twin    streets,    and   sprang   the    single   spire 
Of  Hadley,    where    the    hunted    regicides 
Securely   lived    of  old,   and    strangely   died ; 
And    eastward  still,    upon    the   last   green   step 
From    which    the    Angel    of  the    Morning    Light 
Leaps    to   the    meadow-lands,  fair   Amherst  sat, 
Capped   by   her   many-windowed   colleges  ; 
While    from    his    outpost   in    the  rising   North, 
Bald    with    the   storms    and    ruddy   with    the   suns 


30  Katkrina 

Of  the   long   eons,    stood    old    Sugarloaf, 
•Gazing   with    changeless    brow    upon   a   scene, 
Changing   to   fairer   beauty   evermore. 

Save   of  the   river   and   my   pleasant   home, 

I    knew   not   then    the   names   and   history 

Borne   by   these   visions ;    but   upon    my   brain 

Their   forms   were   graved    in   lines   indelible 

As,   on    the   rocks    beneath    my   feet,    the   prints 

Of  life   in  its   first   motion.       Later   years 

Renewed   the   picture,   and   its   outlines   filled 

With   fair   associations, — wrought   the   past 

And   living    present   into   fadeless   wreaths 

That  crowned  each  mound  and    mount,  and   town  and 

tower, 

The   king   of  teeming   memories.      Nor   could 
I    guess   with   faintest   foresight   of  the   life 
Which,   in   the   years   before   me,    I    should   weave 
Of  mingled   threads   of  pleasure   and   of  pain 
Into   these  scenes,    until   not   one   of  all 
Could   meet   my   eye,   or   touch   my   memory, 
Without   recalling   an   experience 
That   drank   the   sweetest   ichor   of  my   veins, 
Or  crowded    them    with   joy. 


Kathrina  3  r 

At  length    I    turned 

From    the    wide    survey,  and    with    pleased    surprise 
Detected,  nestling   at   the    mountains   foot, 
The   cottage    I    had   left ;    and,  on    the   lawn, 
Two   forms   of  life   that   flitted    to    and    fro. 
I    knew   that   they   had  missed    me ;    so    I    sought 
The   passage    I    had   climbed,  and,  with    the    lamb 
Still   fastened    to   my    wrist,  I    hasted    down. 

Full   of  the   marvels    of  the   hour    I    sped, 

Leaping   from   rock   to   rock,  or   flying   swift 

The   smoother   slopes,  with  arms    half  wings,  and  feet 

That    only   guarded   the   descent,  the   while 

My  captive   led   me   captive    at   his    will. 

So   tense  the   strain    of  sinew,  so    intense 

The   mood   and   motion,  that   before    I    guessed, 

The   headlong   flight   was    finished,  and    I    walked, 

Jaded    and    reeking,  in    the   level    path 

That   led    the   larnbkin    home. 

My    mother   saw, 

And    ran    to   meet    me :    then    for   long,  still   hours, 
Couched   in    a   dim,  cool    room,  I    lay   ana   slept. 
When    I    awoke,  I    found   her   at    my    side, 


KatJirina 


Fanning   my   face,  and   ready   with    her   smile 
And    soothing   words   to   greet    me.     Then    I    told, 
With    youthful    volubility,    and   wild 
Extravagance   of  figure   and   of  phrase, 
My   wild   exploit. 


At    first    she   questioned    me 

But,  as    I    wrought   each    scene   and    circumstance 
Into   consistent   form,  she   drank    my    words 
In    eager   silence ;    and   within    her   eyes 
I    saw   the   glow   of  pride   which   gravity 
And   show   of  deep   concern    could    not   disguise. 
I    read   her   bosom   better   than    she   knew. 


Kathrina  33 

I    saw    that   she   had    made   discovery 

Of  something   unsuspected    in    her   child, 

And    that,  by    one    I    loved — my   dearest,  best, — 

The    fire   that   burned    within    me,    and    the    power 

That   morning   called    to   life,  were    recognized. 

When    I    had    told    my    story,  and    had    read 

With    kindling   pride    my    praises    in    her    eyes, 

She   placed    her   soft    hand    on    my   brow,  and    said  : 

"My    Paul    has    climbed    the   noblest   mountain    height 

"  In   all    his   little   world,  and   gazed   on    scenes 

"  As    beautiful    as    rest   beneath    the    sun. 

"  I   trust   he   will    remember,  all    his   life, 

"That   to    his    best   achievement,  and    the   spot 

"  Nearest    to   heaven    his   youthful    feet    have    trod, 

"  He   has   been    guided   by   a   guileless   lamb. 

"  It   is    an    omen    which   his    mother's   heart 

"Will   treasure   with    her  jewels." 

When    the   sun 

Of  the   long  summer   day    hung   but   an    hour 
Above   his    setting,  and    the  cool    West    Wind 
Bore    from    the    purpling    hills    his    benison, 
The   farewell    courtesies    of  love    were   given, 


34  Kathrina 

And    we   set    forth    for   home. 

Not   far   we   fared — 

The   river   left   behind — when,  looking   back, 
I    saw   the    mountain    in    the    searching   light 
Of  the   low   sun.     Surcharged   with   youthful    pride 
In    my   adventure,  I    can    ne'er   forget 
The   disappointment   and    chagrin    which    fell 
Upon   me ;    for   a   change    had   passed.     The   steep 
Which   in   the   morning   sprang   to    kiss    the    sun, 
Had  left    the    scene  ;    and    in    its    place    I    saw 
A    shrunken  pile,  whose  paths   my  steps  had   climbed, 
Whose   proudest   height   my   humble    feet   had    trod. 
Its   grand   impossibilities,   and    all 
Its   store   of  marvels   and   of  mysteries, 
Were   flown    away,  and    would    not    be   recalled. 
The    mountain's    might    had    entered    into    me ; 
And,  from    that   fruitful   hour,  whatever   scene 
Nature   revealed   to   me,  she   never   caught 
My   spirit   humbled   by   surprise.     My   thought 
Built   higher   mountains   than    I    ever   found  ; 
Poured    wilder   cataracts    than    I    ever   saw ; 
Drove   grander   storms    than    ever   swept   the   sky ; 
Pushed    into   loftier   heavens    and    lower   hells 


Kathrina  : 

Than    the   abysmal   reach   of  light   and   dark ; 
And  entertained    me   with   diviner   feasts 
Than    ever   met   the   appetite   of  sense, 
And    poured    me    wine    of  choicer   vintages 
Than    fire   the   hearts    of  kings. 

The   frolic-flame 

Which    in    the    morning    kindled    in    my    veins 
Had   died   away ;    and   at    my   mother's    side 
I   walked    in    quiet    mood,   and   gravely   spoke 
Of  the   great    future.     With   a   tender   quest 
My   mother   probed    my   secret   wish,   and    heard. 
With    silence    new   and    strange    respectfulness, 
The    revelation    of  my   plans.     I    felt 
In    her    benign    attention    to    my    words ; 
In    her   suggestions,  clothed    with   gracious  phrase 
To   win    my  judgment  ;    and    in    all    those   shades 
Of  mien    and    manner   which  a   mother's   love 
Inspires    so    quickly,  when    the    form    it    nursed 
Becomes    a   staff  in    its   caressing   hand, 
She    had   made   space   for   me,  and    placed    her  life 
In    new    relations    to    my    own.     I    knew 
That    she   who    through    my    span   of  tender   years 
Had    counselled    me,  had   given    me   privilege 


36  Katlirina 


Within    her   councils  ;    and   the    moment   came 
I    learned    that    in    the    converse    of  that    hour, 
The   appetency   of  maternity 
For    manhood    in    its    offspring,  had    laid    hold 
Of  the   fresh   growth   in   me,  and    feasted    well 
Its   gentle   passion. 

Ere   we   reached    our   home, 
The   plans   for   study   were    matured,  and    I, 
Who,  with   an    aptitude    beyond   my   years, 
Had    gathered    learning's    humbler    rudiments 
From   her   to   whom    I    owed  my   earliest   words, 
Was,  when   another  day   should   rise,  to   pass 
To   rougher   teaching,  and   society 

Of    the   rude   youth   whose   wild   and    boisterous    ways 
Had   scared   my    childish   life. 

I    nerved    my   heart 

To    meet    the    change  ;    and    all    the    troubled  night 
I    tossed    upon    my    pillow,  filled    with    fears, 
Or   fired    with    hot    ambitions  ;    shrinking  oft 
With   girlish    sensitiveness    from    the    lot 
My   manly   heart   had    chosen  ;    rising    oft 
Above   my   cowardice,  well    panoplied 


Kathriua 

By   fancy    to   achieve   great   victories 
O'er   those   whose   fellows    I    should    be. 


37 


At   last, 


The   dawn  looked    in    upon    me,  and    I    rose 
To   meet    its    golden    coming,  and   the   life 
Of  golden    promise   whose   wide-open    doors 
Waited    my   feet. 


The   lingering   morning   hours 
Seemed   days    of  painful    waiting,  as    they   fell 
In    slowly  filling  numbers    from    the   tower 
Of  the   old    village   church ;    but    when,  at    length, 
My   eager   feet    had    touched    the   street,  and   turned 
To   climb    the   goodly   eminence   where    he 


38  Katkrina 

In    whose    profound    and    stately    pages    live 
His    country's    annals,  ruled    his    youthful    realm, 
My   heart   grew   stern    and   strong ;    and   nevermore 
Did    doubt    of  excellence    and    mastery 
Drag   down    my    soaring    courage,  or   disturb 
My    purposes    and    plans. 

What   boots    it    here 
To   tell    with    careful    chronicle    the    life 
Of  my    novitiate  ?     Up   the  graded    months 
My   feet    rose    slowly,  but    with    steady   step, 
To    tall    and    stalwart    manliness    of  frame, 
And    ever    rising    and    expanding    reach 
Of  intellection,   and    the   power   to    call 
Forth    from    the    pregnant    nothingness    of  words 
The    sphered  creations    of   my   chosen   art. 
What    boots    it    to    recount   my   victories 
Over    my    fellows,  or    to    tell    how    all, 
Contemptuous    at    first,  became    at    length 
Confessed    inferiors    in    every    strife 
When    brain    or   brawn    contended  ?    Victories 
Were    won   too   easily   to   bring   me   pride, 
And    only   bred   contempt   of  the   low   pitch 
And    lower   purpose    of  the    power   which   strove 


Kathriua  39 

i 

So   feebly   and   so   clumsily.     When    won, 
They   fed    my   mother's   passion,  and   she   praised ; 
And   her  delight   was    all   the   boon   they    brought. 
My   fierce   ambition,  ever   reaching   up 
To   higher   fields   and    nobler   combatants, 
Trampled   its   triumphs    underneath   its    feet  ; 
And   in   my    heart   of  hearts    I    pitied   her 
To   whose    deep    Hunger   of   maternal   pride 
They    bore   ambrosial    ministry. 

In   all 

These   years   of  doing   and    development, 
My   heart   was  haunted   by   a   bitter  pain. 
In    every  scene   of  pleasure,  every   hour 
That    lacked    employment,  every    moment's    lull 
Of  toil   or   study,  its   familiar   hand 
Was   raised   aloft,  to   smite  me  with   its    pang. 
From    month    to  month,  from  year   to  year,    I   saw 
That  she  who    bore   me,    and  to  whom    I    owed 
The  meek   and    loyal    reverence   of   a   child, 
Was    changing  places   with    me,    and   that   she — 
Dependent,  trustful,  and   subordinate — 
Deferred   to    me   in    all   things,    and   in   all 
Gave    me  the  parent's  piace  and    took   the   child's. 


Kathrina 


She   waited  for   my   coming   like   a   child ; 
She   ran  to  meet   and    greet    me   like   a  child  ; 
She   leaned  on  me   for   guidance  and   defence, 
And    lived  in   me,   and   by   me,    like   a   child. 
If   I    were   absent   long   beyond    my   wont, 
She   yielded   to   distresses   and    to   tears  ; 
And    when   I    came,    she   flew   into  my   arms 


Kathrina  4 1 

With    childish    impulse   of  delight,  or   chid 
With   weak   complainings   my   delay. 


By   these, 

And   by   a   thousand   other   childish    ways, 
I    knew   disease    was    busy    with   her   life, 
Working   distempers    in   her   heart   and    brain, 
And   driving   her   for   succor    to    my   strength. 
The  change  was  great  in  her,  though  slowly  wrought, — 
Though  wrought  so   slowly   that   my  thought  and  life 
Had    been    adjusted    to    it,    but   for   this  : — 
One   dismal   night,    a   trivial   accident 
Had   kept    me   from    my    home   beyond   the   hour 
At   which    my   promise   stood   for   my   return. 
Arriving   at   the   garden   gate,    I    paused 
To   catch    a   glimpse    of  the   accustomed   light, 
Through    the    cold    mist    that    wrapped    me,    but    in 

vain. 

Only   one    window   glimmered    through    the   gloom, 
Through   whose    uncurtained    panes    I    dimly   saw 
My    mother   in    her   chamber.       She   was    clad 
In    the   white   robe   of  rest  ;    but    to   and   fro 
She  crossed    the  light,   sometimes  with    hands  pressed 

close 


42  Kathrina 

Upon   her   brow,  sometimes  raised  up  toward  heaven, 

As   if  in   deprecation   or   despair ; 

And   through    the   strident   soughing   of   the    elm 

I   heard   her  voice,  still   musical   in    woe, 

Wailing   and   calling. 

With   a  noiseless   step 

I    reached   the  door,  and,  with   a   noiseless  key, 
Turned    back   the   bolt,  and   stood   within.       I    could 
Have   called   her   to   my   arms,  and   quelled   her   fears 
By   one   dear   word,  and   yet,   I    spoke    it   not. 
I   longed   to   learn   her   secret,   and   to   know 
In   what   recess   of   history   or   heart 
It   hid,  and   wrought   her   awful   malady. 

Not   long   I    waited,  when    I    heard   her   voice 
Wail   out   again   in    wild,  beseeching   prayer, — 
Her   voice   so   sweet   and   soulful,  that   it   seemed 
As    if  a   listening   fiend   could    not   refuse 
Such    help   as   in    him    lay,   although    her   tongue 
Should    falter   to    articulate   her   pain. 

I    heard   her   voice — O    God  !      I    heard    her   words  ! 
Not   bolts    of   burning   from    the   vengeful    sky 


Kathrina  43 

Had  scathed  or  stunned  me  more.     I   shook  like  one 
Powerless   within   the   toils   oi  some   great   sin, 
Or   some   o'ermastering   passion ;    or   like   one 
Whose   veins   turn   ice   at   onset  of  the   plague. 
"  O    God,"    she   said,  "  my    Father   and  my    Friend ! 
"  Spare   him  to   me,  and    save    me   from    myself ! 
"  O  !    if  thou   help   me    not — if  thou    forsake — 
"  This    hand    which    thou    hast    made,   will    take    the 

life 

"  Thou  mad'st   the   hand    to   feed.     I    cling   to   him, 
"  My    son, — my   boy.     If  danger   come   to   him, 
"  No   one    is    left    to    save    me  from    this   crime. 
"  Thou    knowest,  O !    my    God,  how    I    have   striven 
'•  To    quench   the   awful   impulse ;    how,  in    vain, 
"  My   prayers   have   gone   before   thee,  for   release 
"  From    the   foul   demon   who   would   drive   my   soul 
"  To   crime   that   leaves    no   space   for   penitence ! 
"  O  !    Father !    Father  !     Hear   me    when    I    call ! 
"Hast  thou    not   made   me?     Am    I    not    thy   child? 
"Why,  why   this  mad,  mysterious   desire 
"  To  follow   him    I    loved,  by    the   dark   door 
"  Through  which  he  forced  his    passage    to  the   realm 
"  That   death  throws   wide   to   all  ?     O   why  must    I, 
"  A    poor,  weak    woman — " 


44 


Kathrina 


I    could   hear   no    more, 

But   dropped   my   dripping   cloak,  and,  with  a   voice 
Toned   to   its   tenderest  cadence,  I    pronounced 
The    sweet   word,  "mother!" 


Her   excess  of  joy 
Burst    in    a    cry,  and    in    a    moment's    space 


Kathrina  45 

I 

I    sat   within   her   room,  and   she,  my   child, 
Was    sobbing   in   my   arms.     I    spoke   no   word, 
But   sat   distra<5led   with   my   tenderness 
For   her   who   threw   herself  upon    my   heart 
In   perfect    trust,  and   bitter   thoughts    of  Him 
Whose    succor,    though   importunately   sought 
In    piteous   pleadings   by    a   gentle    saint, 
Was  grudgingly  withheld.     Her   closing   words : 
"  O  !   why   must    I,    a   poor,    weak   woman — "    rang 
Through   every  chamber   of  my   tortured    soul, 
And    called    to   conclave   and    rebellion   all 
The   black-browed    passions    thitherto   restrained. 

Ay,   why   should    she,    who   only   sought  for   God, 
Be   given    to  a   devil  ?     Why   should   she 
Who   begged   for   bread  be   answered  with  a  stone  ? 
Ay,     why     should      she     whose     soul      recoiled     from 

sin 

As    from   a   fiend,    find    in    her   heart   a   fiend 
To    urge  the   sin    she   hated  ?     questions   all 
The    fiends   within    me   answered    as    they   would. 
O    God!    O    Father!     How    I    hated   Thee! 
Nay,  how    within    my    angry    soul    I    dared 
To    curse    thy   sacred    name ! 


46  Kathrina 

* 

Then    other   thoughts — 

Thoughts   of  myself  and    of  my   destiny — 
Succeeded.     Who   and   what   was    I  ?     A   youth, 
Doomed    by    hereditary    taint    to    crime,— 
A  youth   whose   every   artery   and   vein 
Was   doubly   charged   with    suicidal   blood. 
When    the   full   consciousness   of  what    I    was 
Possessed   my   thought,  and  I    gazed   down   the    abyss 
God   had  prepared   for   me,  I    shrank   aghast ; 
And    there   in   silence,  with   an    awful    oath 
I    dare    not   write,  I    swore   my   will   was   mine, 
And   mine  my   hand  ;    and    that,  though   all  the  fiends 
That   cumber   hell    and  overrun   the   earth 
Should    spur   the   deadly   impulse   of  my   blood, 
And    heaven    withhold    the    aid   I   would   not    ask ; 
Though   woes  unnumbered    should    beset   my   life, 
And    reason    fall,  and    uttermost    despair 
Hold   me  a   hopeless   prisoner   in    its   glooms, 
I    would    resist    and    conquer,  and    live    out 
My   complement   of  years.     My   bosom   burned 
With    fierce   defiance,  and    the   angry   blood 
Leaped  from   my  heart,  and  boomed  within  my  brain 
With    throbs    that     stunned     me,    though    each     fiery 
thrill 


Kathrina  47 

Was   charged   with   tenderness   for  her^  whose   head 
Was   pillowed    on   its   riot. 

Long   I    sat — 

How   long,  I    know   not — but   at   last   the  sad, 
Hysteric    sobs    and    suspirations    ceased, 
Or   only   at   wide   intervals    recurred ; 
And   then    I    rose,  and   to   her   waiting   bed 
Led    my   doomed    mother.     With    a   cheerful   voice — 
Cheerful   as    I    could    summon — and   a   kiss, 
I    bade    her   a    good    night    and    pleasant    dreams ; 
And    then,  across    the   hall,  I    sought    my   room, 
Where    neither    sleep    nor   dream    awaited    me, 
But    only    blasphemous,  black    thoughts,  and  strife 
With  tGod   and    Destiny. 

I    saw    it    all  : 

The   lamp    that    from    my    mother's    window   beamed, 
Illumined   other   nights   and   other  storms, 
And  by   its    lurid  light   revealed    to    me 
The   secrets    of  a   life.     Her   sudden    pangs, 
Her   brooding  woes,    her   terrors    when   alone, 
The    strange   surrender   of  her   will   to    mine, 
Her   hunger   for   my   presence,    and   her   fear 


48  Kathrina 

That   by   some   slip   of  fortune  she  should   lose 
Her   hold   on    me,    were   followed    to   their  home — 
To    her   poor  heart,    that   fluttered  every   hour 
With   conscious   presence   of  an   enemy 
That   would   not   be   expelled,    and    strove   to    spill 
The   life   it   spoiled. 

From    that    eventful   night 
She    was   not   left   alone.     I    called  a   friend, 
A   cheerful   lady,   whose   companionship 
Was    music,    medicine,   and   rest  ;  and  she, 
Wanting  a   home,   and    with   a   ready   wit 
Learning   my   mother's    need   and    my   desire, 
Assumed  the   place   of  matron   in    the   house ; 

And,   in    return   for   what   we   gave    to   her, 

• 
Gave   us   herself. 

My  mother's   confidence, 
By  her  self-confidence,   she  quickly   won  ; 
And    thus,  though    sadly   burdened    at   my   heart, 
I   found   one   burden   lifted   from   my   hands. 
More  liberty   ot   movement   and   of  toil 
I    needed  ;   for   the   time  was   drawing   near 
When   I    should    turn    my   feet    toward   other   halls, 


Kathrina  49 

To   seek    maturer    study,    and    complete 
The   work   of  culture   faithfully   begun. 

Into    my   mother's    ear    I    breathed    my   plans 
With    careful   words.     The   university 
Was   but   a   short    remove — a   morning's    walk — 
Away   from    her  ;    and    ever   at    her   wish — 
Nay,    always   when    I    could — I    would    return  ; 
And   separation    would   but    sweeten    love, 
And   joy   of  meeting   recompense    the   pain 
Of  parting   and  of  absence. 

She   was   calm, 

And   leaning   in    her   thought  upon    her   friend, 
Gave   her   consent.     So,    on    a  summer   day, 
I   kissed   her  faded   cheek,   and  turned    from    home 
To   seek  the   college   halls   that    I   had    seen 
From    boyhood's    mount  of  vision. 

Of  the  years 

Passed   there  in  study — of  the  rivalries, 
The   long,    stern    struggles    for   pre-eminence, 
The   triumphs    hardly   won,    but  won    at   last 
Beyond    all  cavil,   matters    not    to   tell. 


50  Katkrina 

It    was    my   grief  that    while   I    gained   and   grew, 
My    mother   languished   momently,  and   lost,— 
A    grief  that    turned    to   poison    in    my   blood. 
The   college    prayers   were    mummeries    to   me, 
And    with    disdainful    passion    I    repelled 
All    Christian    questionings    of  heart   and   life, 
By    old    and   young. 

I   stood,    I    moved  alone. 
I    sought   no   favors,  took   no   courtesies 
With    grateful   grace,   and    nursed    my  haughty   pride. 
The  men    who  kneeled   and  gloomed,  and    prayed   and 

sang, 

Seemed   but  a   brood    of  dullards,    whom    contempt 
Would   honor   overmuch.     No    tender   spot 
Was   left   within    my   indurated   heart, 
Save    that    which    moved   with    ever-melting   ruth 
For   her  whose  breast  had  nursed  me,  and  whose  love 
Had   given    my   life    the   only   happiness 
It   yet    had   known. 

With    her    I   kept    my   pledge 
With    more    than    faithful    punctuality. 
Few    weeks    passed   by   in   all  those   busy   years 


Katlirina  5 1 

In    which    I    did    not   walk   the   way   between 
The    college  and   my   home,    and    bear   to    her 
Such    consolation    as    my   presence   gave. 
In    truth,    my    form    was   as    familiar   grown 
To   all    the    rustic    dwellers   on    the   road 
As    I    had   been   a   post-boy. 

Little  joy 

These   visits   won    for   me — little    beyond 
That    which    I    found   in    bearing  joy    to   her — 
For  every    year    marked    on    her    slender   frame, 
And    on    her    cheeks,    and    on    her    failing   brain, 
Its    record   of  decadence.      I    could   see 
That   she   was    sinking   into    helplessness, 
And    that    too    soon    her   inoffensive   soul, 
With    all    its    sweet   affections,  would   go   down 
To    hopeless    wreck    and   darkness. 

From  her   friend 

I    learned   that   still   the   burden   of  her   prayer 
Was,    that     she     might     be     saved     from     one     great 

sin — 

The   sin    of  self-destruclion.       Every   hour 
This   one    petition    struggled    from    her   heart, 


5  2  Kathrina 

To   reach    the   ear   of  heaven  ;    yet   never    help 
Came   down   in   answer   to   her   cry. 

The    Spring 

That    ushered    in    my   closing   college-year 
Came   up   the   valley   on    her   balmy   wings, 
And   Winter   fled   away,  and   left   no    trace, 


Save   here   and  there   a   snowy   drift,  to    show 


Kathrina  5  3 

Where   his   cold   feet   had   rested   in   their   flight. 
But   one   still   night,  within   the   span   of  sleep, 
A   shivering   winter   cloud   that   wandered   late 
Shook   to   the    frosty   ground   its   inch    of  rime. 
So,  when    the   morning   rose,  the   earth  was   white ; 
And  shrubs  and  trees,  and  roofs  and  rocks  and  walls, 
Fulgent    with    downy   crystals,  made   a   world 
To    which    a   breath    were   ruin  ;    and   a   breath 
Wrecked   it   for   me,  and,  by   a   few    sad   words, 
Blotted    the   sunlit    splendor   from    my   sight. 

As    I    looked    out    upon   the   scene,  and   mused 
Of  her   to    whom    I    hoped   it  might   impart 
Some   healthy  touch   of  joy,  I    heard    the   beat 
Of  hoofs    upon    the    trackless   blank,  and   saw 
A   horseman   speeding   up   the   avenue. 
I    raised   my   sash    (I    knew   he   came   for   me), 
And   faltered   forth   my   question.       From    his    breast 
He   drew   a   folded   slip :    dismounting   then, 
He   stooped   and   pressed   the    missive   in    a   mass 
Of   clinging   snow,   and   tossed-  it    to   my   hand. 
I   closed   the   window,   burst    the   frosty   seal, 
And    read  :     "  Your   mother   cannot   long   survive  : 
Come   home   to   her   to-day."      I    did   not   pause 


54  Kathrina 

To   break    the    fast   of  night,   but,    rushing   forth, 
I    followed   close   the   messenger's    return. 

It   was   a   morning,  such   as   comes    but    once 
In   all    the    Spring, — so    still   and    beautiful, 
So   full   of  promise,  so   exhilarant 
With   frost   and    fire,   in    earth    and   air,   that    life 
Had   been   a   brimming  joy   but   for   the    scene 
That   waited    for   my   eyes — the   scene   of  death — 
From    which    imagination   staggered    back, 
And   every   sensibility   recoiled. 

The   smoke   from    distant   sugar-camps   rolled    up 

Through    the    still    ether    in    columnar   coils — 

Blue   pillars   of  a   bluer   dome — and   all 

The   resonant   air   was   full   of  sounds    of  Spring. 

The   sheep   were   bleating   round    their   empty    ricks 

Horses   let   loose   were   calling   from    afar, 

And   winning   fierce   replies  ;    the   axeman's    blows 

Fell   nimbly   at    the   piles    which    wintry    woods 

Had   lent    to    summer   stores  ;    while   far   and    faint, 

The   rhythmic   ululations   of  the   hound 

On    a    fresh    trail,  upon    the    mountain's    side, 

Added    their   strange,  wild   music    to  the   morn. 


Kathrina  5  5 

The   beauty   and   the     music   caught   my   sense, 
But   woke    within   my   sick   and    sinking   heart 
No    motion    of  response.      1    walked    as    one 
Condemned    to   dungeon-glooms    might    walk 
Through    shouts    of  mirth    and    festal   pageantry, 
Hearing   and    seeing   all,  yet    over   all 
Hearing   the   clank   of  chains    and   clash    of  bars, 
And    seeing   but    the    reptiles   of  his   cell. 

How    I    arrived    at   home,   without    fatigue, 
Without   a   thought   of  effort — onward    borne 
By   one   absorbing   and    impelling   thought — 
As    one   within   a   minute's    mete    may    slide 
O'er   leagues   of  sunny   dreamland    in    a   dream, 
By   magic   or   by    miracle — I    found 
No   time    to    question. 

At   my   mother's   door 

I    stood   and   listened  :    soon    I    heard    my   name 
Pronounced   within    in    spiteful   whisperings. 
I    raised   the   latch,  and    met   her   burning   eyes. 
She    stared    a   wild,  mad    stare,  then    raised    herself. 
And    in    weak   fury   poured    upon    my   head 
The   vials   of  her   wrath.       I    stood    like   stone, 


5  6  Kathrina 

Without   the   power   to   speak,  the   while   she   rained 

Her   maledictions    on   me,  and   in    words 

Fit   only    for   the   damned,  accused   my   life 

Of     crimes     my     language     could     not     name,     and 

deeds 
Which   only   outcast   wretches   know. 

At   length 

I    gained   my   tongue,  and   tried   to   take   her   hand  ; 
But   with   a   shriek   which   cut   me   like   a   knife 
She   shrank   from    me,  and   hid   her   quivering   face 
Within   her   pillow. 

Then    I    turned   away, 

And   sought   the   room    where   oft   in   better  days 
We   both   had   knelt   together   at   my   bed, 
And,  making   fast   my   door,   I    threw   myself 
Prone   on   the   precious    couch,  and   gave   to   grief 
My   strong   and    stormy   nature.      All   the   day 
With    bursts    of  passion    I    bewailed   my   loss, 
Or   lay   benumbed   in   feeling   and   in   thought, 
Tasting   no   food,-  and   shutting   out    my   soul 
From    all   approach    of  human    sympathy, 
Till  the  light  waned,  and    through  the  leafless  boughs 


Kathrina 

Of  the    old    elm    I    caught    the    sheen    of  stars. 
Then    sleep   descended — such    a   sleep   as    comes 
To    uttermost    exhaustion, — sleep    with    dreams 
Wild    as    the    waking   fantasies    of  her 


57 


58  Kathrunt 

Whose   screams   and   incoherent    words   gave   voice 
To    all    their   phantom    brood. 

At    length    I    woke. 

The-  house   was   still    as    death  ;    and    yet    I    heard, 
Or   thought    I    heard,   the   touch    of  crafty   feet 
Upon    the   carpet,   creeping   by    my   door. 
It   passed   away,  away  ;    and   then    a    pause, 
Still   and   presageful    as    the    breathless    calm 
On    which    the   storm-cloud    mounts    the    pallid    West, 
Succeeded.      I    could    hear    the   parlor-clock 
Counting   the   beaded   silence,  and    my   bed, 
Rustling   beneath    my    breathing   and    my    pulse, 
Was    sharply   crepitant,  and   gave    me   pain. 

An    hour  passed   by    (it   loitered   like   an    age), 
And   then    came   hurried   words   and   hasty   fall 
Of  footsteps    in    the   passage.      I    could    hear 
Screams,  sobs,  and  whispered  calls  and  closing  doors, 
And   heavy  feet   that  jarred    my   bed,   and    shook 
The    windows   of  my   room.       I    did    not    stir : 
I    dared    not    stir  ;    but    lay    in    deathly    dread, 
Waiting    the    dread    denouement.       Soon    it    came. 

A    man    approached    my    door,   and    tried    the    latch  ; 

8 


Katlirina  59 

Then     knocked,     and     called.       I     knew     the     kindly 

voice 

Of  the  physician,  and  threw  back  the  bolt. 
Then  by  the  light  he  held  before  his  face 
I  read  the  fact  of  death. 

I    took   his    arm, 

And,    as  I    feebly   staggered   down   the   stairs, 
He   broke   to    me   with    lack   of  useless    words 
The   awful    truth.    .    .    .    The   old   familiar   tale  : 
She   counterfeited    sleep  :    the    nurses   both, 
Weary   with   over- watching   in    their   chairs, 
Under   the    cumbrous    stillness,   slept   indeed  ; 
And   when    she    knew   it,  she    escaped  ;   and   then 
She   did    the   deed    to    which    for   many   years 
She   had   been   predisposed.      Perhaps    I    knew 
The   nature   of  the   case  :    perhaps    I    knew 
My   father   went    that   way.       I    clutched    his   arm : 
There   was   no    need    of  words. 

The   parlor   door 

Stood  open,  and  a  throng  of  silent  friends, 
Choking  with  tears,  gazed  on  a  silent  form 
Shrouded  in  snowy  linen.  They  made  way 


60  Kaihi'iua 


For  me   and    my    companion.       On  -my    knees 
I    clasped    the   precious    clay,   and   pouring   forth 
My    pitying    love    and    tenderness    for    her, 
I    gave    indignant    voice    to    my    complaint 
Against    the    Being    who,   to    all    her    prayers, 
For    succor    and    security,   had    turned 
A    deaf,  dead    ear   and    a    repelling    hand. 

To    what    blaspheming    utterance    I    gave 

My   raving   passion,   may   the    God    I    cursed 

Forbid    my    shrinking    memory    to    recall  ! 

I    now    remember   only    that    when    drawn 

By    strong,   determined    hands    away    from    her, 

The    room    was    vacant.      Every    pitying    friend 

Had    flown    my    presence    and    the    room,   to    find 

Release   of  sensibility  from    words 

That    roused    their    superstitious    souls    to    fear 


KalJirina  6 1 

That  God  would  smite  me  through  the  blinding  smoke 
Of  my    great    torment. 

Silence,  for   the   rest  ! 

It    was    a    dream  ;    and    only    as    a   dream 
Do    I    remember    it  :    the    coffined    form, 
The    funeral — a    concourse    of  the    town — 
The    trembling    prayer    for    me,   the    choking    sobs 
The   long   procession,   the   descending   clods 
The   slow   return,   articulated    all 

With    wild,  mad    words    of  mine,  and   gentle    speech 
Of  those   who    sought    to   curb   or   comfort   me— 
All   was    a   dream,   from    which    I  woke   at   length 
With  heart  as  dead  as    hers  who  slept.      The  heavens 
Were    brass    above    me,   and    the    breathing    world . 
Was   void   and    meaningless.      When    told    to   pray, 
This    was    the    logic    of   my   heart's    reply : 
If  God   be    Love,  not    such    is    He   to    me 
Nor   such    to   mine.       If   He   heard    not    the   voice 
Of  such    a   lovely   saint   as    she    I    mourned, 
Mine    would   but   rouse    His   vengeance. 

So    I    closed 
With    Reason's    hand    the    adamantine    doors 


62 


Kathriiia 


Which   only    Faith    unlocks,  and   shut    my   soul 
Away   from    God,  the   warder   of  a   gang 
Of  passions    that    in   darkness    stormed    or   gloomed 
And    with    each    other    fought,  or    on    themselves 
Gnawed   for   the   nourishment   which    I    denied. 


COMPLAI  NT 


RIVER,  sparkling  river,  I  have  fault  to  find  with  thee : 
River,  thdu  dost  never  give  a  word  of  peace  to  me ! 
Dimpling  to  each  touch  of  sunshine,  wimpling  to 

each   air   that    blows, 

i 
Thou    dost    make    no    sweet    replying    to    my   sighing 

for   repose. 

Flowers   of  mount    and    meadow,  I    have  fault  to  find 

with    you  ; 
So    the    breezes    cross    and    toss    you,    so    your    cups 

are   filled   with   dew, 
Matters    not   though   sighs   give    motion    to   the  ocean 

cf  your   breath  ; 
Matters    not  though   you   are   filling   with   the  chilling 

drops    of  death  ! 


64  Kat/irina 

Birds    of  song   and  beauty,  lo  !    I   charge  you  all  with 

blame  : — 
Though  all  hapless  passions  thrill  and  fill  me,  you  are 

still  the  same. 

I  can  borrow  for  my  sorrow  nothing  that  avails 
From   your   lonely   note,  that    only   speaks    of  joy   that 

never  fails. 

O  !    indifference  of  Nature  to  the  fa6t  of  human  pain  ! 
Every    grief  that    seeks  relief  entreats  it    at    her    hand 

in    vain  ; 
Not  a  bird  speaks  forth  its  passion,  not   a  river  seeks 

the  sea, 
Nor    a    flower    from    wreaths    of   Summer    breathes    in 

sympathy  with  me. 

O  !  the  rigid  rock  is  frigid,  though  its  bed  be  summer 
mould, 

> 

And  the  diamond  glitters  ever  in  the  grasp  of  change- 
less gold  ; 

And  the  laws  that  bring  the  seasons  swing  their  cycles 
as  they  must. 

Though  the  ample  road  they  trample  blind  the  eyes 
with  human  dust. 


Kathrina  65 

Moons    will    wax    in    argent    glory,    though    man    wane 

to   hopeless    gloom  ; 
Stars  will  sparkle  in  their  splendor,  though  he  darkle 

to    his   doom  ; 
Winds  of  heaven  he  calls  to  fan   him,  ban    him    with 

an    icy    chill, 
And    the    shifting    crowds    of  clouds    go    drifting    o'er 

him    as    they    will. 

Yet  within  my  inmost  spirit  I  can  hear  an  undertone, 
That  by  law  of  prime   relation   holds  these  voices  as 

its    own, — 
The  full  tonic  whose  harmonic  grandeurs  rise  through 

Nature's    words, 
From    the    ocean's   thund'rous    rolling   to    the    trolling 

of .  the    birds. 

Spirit,   O  !    my  spirit !      Is    it    thou    are   out    of  tune  ? 
Art  thou  clinging  to  December  while  the  earth  is  in 

its   June  ? 
Hast    thou    dropped  thy  part  in    nature  ?     Hast    thou 

touched    another   key  ? 
Art    thou    angry    that    the    anthem    will    not,    cannot, 

wait    for   thee  ? 

9 


66  Kathrina 

Spirit,  thou   art   left   alone — alone   on    waters    wild  ; 
For    God    is    gone,   and    Love    is    dead,   and    Nature 

spurns    her    child. 
Thou  art  drifting  in  a  deluge,  waves  below  and  clouds 

above, 
And  with  weary   wings  come  back  to  thee,  thy  raven 

and    thy   dove. 


K  A  T  H  R  I  N  A 


P  A  K  T      I  I 


L  o  i  •  ]>: 


PAR  T     1 1 


LOVE 

As    from    a   deep,    dead    sea,    by   drastic   lift 
Of  pent    volcanic    fires,    the    dripping    form 
Of  a    new    island    swells    to    meet    the   air. 
And,    after   months    of  idle  basking,    feels 
The  prickly  feet   of  life  from    countless   germs 
Creeping  along    its    sides,    and    reaching   up 
In    fern    and    flower    to    the    life-giving  sun, 
So    from    my    grief   I    rose,    and    so   at    length 
I    felt    new   life    returning :    so    I  felt 
The    life    already    wakened    stretching    forth 
To   stronger  light   and    purer   atmosphere. 


"jo  Kathrina 

But    most    I    longed    tor    human    love — the    source 
(So    sadly  closed)    from   which    my    life   had    drawn 
Its   sweetest   inspiration    and  reward. 
I    could  not   pray,   nor   could    my   spirit  win 
From    sights    and    sounds    of  nature    the    response 
It   vaguely   yearned    for.     They   assailed   my    sense 
With    senseless    seeming    of  the    hum    and    whirl 
Of  vast  machinery,    whose    motive   power 
Sought    its    own   ends,    or    wrought    for    ministry 
To    other    life    than    mine. 

I   could    stand   still, 

And  see  the  trains    sweep   by ;   could    hear   the   roar 
Of  thundering  wheels  ;  could  watch  the  pearly  plumes 
That  floated  where  they  flew  ;    could   catch    a    glimpse 
Of  thousand    happy    faces    at    the    glass  ; 
But   felt   that   all    their   freighted   life    and    wealth 
Were   naught    to   me,    and    moved    toward    other    souls 
In   other   latitudes. 

A   year   had    flown, 

And    more,    when,    on  a    Sunday    morn   in    June. 
I    wandered   out,    to    wear  away    the    hours 
Of  growing   restlessness.     The    worshippers 


Kathrinct  7 1 

Were  thronging   to   the  service    of  the  day, 

And  gave    me    sidelong   stare,    or   shunned    me   quite ; 

As    if  they   knew   me    for   a  reprobate, 

And    feared    a    taint   of  death 

I    took   the    road 
That   eastward   cleft  the    town,  and  sought  the  bridge 


That    spanned    the   river,    reaching   which    I  crossed. 
Then   deep    within    the    stripes    of  springing  corn 
I    found    the  'shadow    of  an    elm,   and    lay 
Stretched   on    the    downy  grass    for   listless    hours, 
Dreaming   of  days    gone   by,  or   turning   o'er 
With    careless   hand  the    pages    of  a   book 
I    had  brought    with    me. 


7  2  Kathrina 

Tired  at  length,    I  rose, 

And,    touched    by    some    light    impulse,    moved   along 
The    old,    familiar  road.     I    loitered   on 
In    a    blind    revery,    nor    marked    the    while 
The   furlongs    or   the    time,    until    the  spell 
In    a    full    burst    of  music    was    dissolved. 
I    startled   as    one    startles    from    a   dream, 
And   saw   the   church   of    Hadley,    from    whose   doors, 
Open  to    summer  air,    the  choral    hymn 
Poured    out    its    measured    tides,    and    rose    and    fell 
Upon    the    silence    in    broad    cadences, 
As    from    a    far,    careering    sea,    the    waves 
Lift    into    silver   swells    the    sleeping   breasts 
Of  land-locked    bays, 

I    heard    the   sound   of  flutes 
And    hoarse,    sonorous    viols,     in    accord 
With    happy    human   voices, — and  one    voice — 
A   woman's   or   an   angel's — that   compelled 
My   feet   to  swift   approach.     A   thread  "of    gold, 
Through    all    the    web    of  sound,    I    followed    it 
Till,    by    the   stress    of    some    strange   sympathy, 
And    by    no    act    of   will,   I   joined   my   voice 
To    that   one   voice   of  melody,   and   sang. 


Kathrina  73 

The   heart    is     wiser   than    the    intellect, 

And  works    with   swifter   hands  and  surer   feet 

Toward   wise   conclusions.     So,    without   resort 

To    reason,  in    my    heart    I    knew   that   she 

Who   sang  had    suffered — knew   that  she   had  grieved, 

Had    hungered,  struggled,   kissed   the    cheek   of  death, 

And   ranged    the   scale   of  passions    till    her   soul 

Was    deep,    and    wide,    and    soft    with    sympathy  ; — 

Nay,    more   than    this  :   that   she   had   found   at   last 

Peace   like   a  river,   on   whose   waveless   tide 

She    floated    while    she    sang.     This    was    the    key 

That      loosed      my     prisoned      voice,     and     filled     my 

eyes 

With  tender   tears,    and    touched   to   life   again 
My    better  nature. 

When   the    choral    closed, 
And    the   last    chord    in  silence   lapsed   away, 
I    raised   my    eyes,    and,    nodding    to    the    beck 
Of  the   old,    slippered    sexton,    I   went  in, — 
Not   (shall    it    be   confessed  ?)    to    find   the    God 
At    whose   plain    altar   bowed    the   rual    throng ; 
But,   through   a  voice,    to   follow   to    its    source 
The    influence   that    moved    me. 


74 


Katlirina 


I    was    late ; 

And    many   eyes   looked  up   as    I    advanced 
Through    the  broad  aisle,    and  took  a  seat  that  turned 
My   face   to   all   the   faces    in    the    house. 
I    scanned   the   simpering    girls   within    the  choir, 
But   found   not    what    I    sought ;    and    then   my   eyes 
With    rambling    inquisition    swept    the   pews, 
Pausing   at   every    maiden   face   in   vain. 


One   head,    that   crowned   a   tall   and    slender   form, 
Was    bowed    with    reverent   grace    upon    the   rail 
Before   her ;    and,    although    I    caught    no  glimpse 
Of  her   sweet   face,    I    knew    such    face  was   there, 
And    there   the   voice. 


Kathrina 


75 


It    was    Communion    Day. 
The    simple   table  underneath   the   desk 
Was    draped    with   linen,    on   whose   snow    was    spread 
The    feast   of  love — the   vases   rilled   with    wine, 
The   separated   bread   and   circling   cups. 


The   venerable   pastor  had    come   down 

From    his    high    pulpit,  and   assumed    the  seat 

Of  presidence,  and,  with    benignant    eyes, . 

Sat    smiling   on   his    flock.     The   deacons    all 

Rose   from    their  pews — four  old,  brown-handed  men, 

With    frosty   hair — and    took   the   ancient    chairs 

That   flanked   the    table.      All    the   house   was   still, 

Save  here   and    there   the    rustle   of  a   silk 

Or    folding    of  a    fan ;    and   over    all 

Brooded    the   dove   of  peace.     I    had    no   part 

In    the   fair   spectacle,    but    I    could   feel 

That  it   was    beautiful   and    sweet   as    heaven. 

When    the    old    pastor   rose,    with    solemn    mien, 
I    looked    to    see    the  lady   lift    her   head  ; 


7  6  K a  (lirhi  a 

But    still    she  bowed  ;   and    then  I  heard    these  words 

"  The    person    who    unites    with    us    to-day 

"  Will    take  her   place   before    me   in   the   aisle, 

"  To  give   her   answer  to   our   creed,  and   speak 

"  The   pledges   of  our   covenant." 

Then    first 

I    saw   her   face.     With    modest  grace   she    rose, 
Lifted    her   hat,    and    gave    it   to    the  hand 
Of  a   companion,   and    within    the   aisle 
Stood    out   alone.     My   heart    beat    thick    and    fast 
With   vision    of  her   perfect   loveliness, 
And   apprehension    of  the   heroism 
That   shone   within    her   eyes,    and    made   her   acl 
A    Christ-like   sacrifice. 

O !    eyes    of  blue ! 

O !   lily   throat    and    cheeks    of  faintest    rose  ! 
O  !    brow    serene,    enthroned    in    holy    thought  ! 
O  !    soft,    brown    sweeps    of  hair  !    O  !   shapely   grace 
Of  maidenhood,    enrobed    in    virgin    white  ! 
Why,    in   your   rapt   unconsciousness   of  me 
And    all   around    you — in    the   presence-hall 
Of  God   and    angels — at    the    marriage-feast 


Kathrina  7  7 

Of  Jesus  and    his    chosen — did   my    eyes 
Profane   the   hour   with    other   feast    than   yours  ? 

I    heard    the    "You    Believe"    01  the    old   creed 

Of  Puritan   New    England  ;    and   I    heard 

The   old    "You    Promise"  of  its    covenant. 

Her   bow    of  reverent   assent   to   all 

The   knotty   dogmas,  and    her   silent    pledge 

Of  faithfulness    and    fellowship,    I    saw 

These    formularies    were   the   frame   of  oak — 

Gnarled,    strongly    carved,    and    swart   with    age    and 

use — 

Which    held    the   lovely   piclure   of  my   saint, 
And    showed    her   saintliness    and    beauty   well. 

At  close   of   the   recital   and    response, 

The   pastor   raised    the   plain    baptismal    bowl, 

And   she,    the  maiden   devotee,   advanced 

And   knelt    before   him.     Lifting   then    her    eyes 

To  him   and   heaven,    with   look   of  earnest    faith 

And   perfect    consecration,    she    received 

Upon    her   brow   the   water   from    his   hand. 

The    trickling    chrism    shone  on  her  cheeks    like  tears, 

The    while    he   joined    her    lovely    name    with    God's  : 


7  8  Ka  tliriii  a 

"  KATHRINA,    I    BAPTIZE   THEE    IN   THE   NAME 
"Op    FATHER,    SON,   AND    HOLY    GHOST.    AMEN! 


Still   kneeling   like   a   saint   before    a   shrine, 
She  closed  her  eyes.     Then,  lifting  up  towards  heaven 
His    hands,    the    pastor    prayed, — prayed    that  her   soul 
Might  be   forever   kept   from    stain    and    sin  ; 


Kathrina  79 

That    Christ    might   live   in   her,  and    through    her   life 
Shine    into    other   souls ;    might   give  her   strength 
To   master   all    temptation,   and   to    keep 
The   vows    that   day    assumed  ;    might   comfort    her 
In   every    sorrow,    and,    in    death's   dread    hour, 
Bear  her   in   hopeful    triumph    to   the    rest 
Prepared    for   those   who   love    Him. 

All    this    scene 

I    saw    through   blinding   tears.     The   poetry 
That    like   a   soft   aureola   embraced 
Within    its    cope    those   two   contrasted   forms ; 
The    eager   observation    and    the    hush 
That   reigned    through   all    the   house ;    the   breathless 

spell 

Of  sweet    solemnity   and    tender   awe 
Which    held   all    hearts,    when    she,    The    Beautiful, 
Received  the   sfgn    of  marriage   to  The    Good, 
Oerwhelmed    me,    and    I    wept.     Shall   I    confess 
That  in    the   struggle   to   repress    my   tears 
And   hold   my    swelling    heart,    I    grudged    her    gift, 
And    felt  that,   by    the    measure   she  had   risen, 
She    had    put   space   between    herself  and    me, 
And    quenched    my    hope  ? 


8o  Kathrina 

She    stood    while    courtesy 

Of   formal    Christian    welcome    was    bestowed  ; 
Then     straightway    sought     her    seat,    as    though     no 

eyes 

But    those   of  One    unseen    observed    her   steps. 
I    saw    her   taste   the    Sacramental    bread, 
And    touch    the    silver  chalice    to    her   lips  ; 
And    while   she    thought   of    Him,    The    Spotless    One 
Whose   flesh    and   blood  were  symbolled   to  her  heart, 
And    worshipped    in    her   thought,   I    ate   and  drank 
Her    virgin    beauty — with    what   guilty   sense 
Of  profanation  ! 

Last,   the    closing    hymn 

Gave    me    her   voice   again  ;    and    this    I    drank  ; 
Nay,  this    invaded    and    pervadecl    me 
Its    subtile    search    found    out    the    sleeping    chords 
Of  sympathy  ;    and    on    the    bridge    of   sound 
It    built    between    our    souls     I    crossed,  and  saw 
Into    the    depths    of  purity    and   love — 
The   full,  pathetic    power   of  womanhood — 
From    which    the    structure    sprang.       Just    once 
I    caught    her   eyes.     She    blushed    with    consciousness 
Of  my    strong    gaze ;    but    paused    not    in    her    hymn 


Kathnna  8 1 

Till   she   had   given    to   every  word    the   wings 
That   bore    it,  like   a   singing    bird,  toward    heaven. 

The   benediction    fell  ;    and    then    the    throng 

Passed   slowly   out.      I    was   the   last    to   go. 

I    saw   a   man    whom    I    had    known,   and    shrank 

Both    from    his   greetings   and    his    questionings. 

One  thing   I   learned  :    that   she    who   thus    had  joined 

This    cluster   of  disciples    was    not   born 

And   reared   among   their   number  :    that    was    plain. 

I    saw   it    in   her   bearing   and    her   dress ; 

In    that   unconsciousness    of  self  that    comes 

Of  gentle   breeding,  and   society 

Of   gentle    men    and    women  ;    in    the   ease 

With    which    she    bore    the   awkward    deference 

Of  those    who    spoke    with    her   adown    the    aisle  ; 

In   distant   and   admiring   gaze  'of  men, 

And   the   cold    scrutiny    ot    village   girls 

Who    passed    for   belles. 

I    stood    upon    the   steps — 

The   last   who   left   the   door — and    there    I    found 
The   lady  and    her   friend.      The    elder   turned, 
And    with    a    cordial    greeting   took    my    hand, 


82  Katlirina 

And    rallied    me   on    my   forgetfulness. 
Her   eyes,  her   smile,  her    manner,   and    her    voice 
Touched    the   quick    springs    of  memory,   and  I    spoke 
Her   name. 

She   was    my   mother's   early   friend, 
Whose   face   I    had   not   seen   in   all   the   years 
That   had   flown   over   us,  since  from    her  door 
I    chased   her   lamb   to   where    I    found — myself. 
She   spoke   with   tender   words   and   swimming   eyes 
Of  her   I    mourned,    and   questioned    me   like   one 
Who   felt   a   mother's    anxious    interest 
In    all    my   cares   and    plans.      Why   did    I    not 
In    all    my   maunderings   and    wanderings 
Remember    I    had   friends,  and    visit   them — 
Not    missing   her  ?      Her   niece   was   with   her   now  ; 
Would   live   with   her, 'perhaps — ("a   lovely   girl  !  "- 
In    whisper)  ;    and    they   both    would    so    much   like 
To    see   me   at    their   house  !    (whisper   again  : 


Katkrina  83 

"  Poor   child  !    I    fear   it    is    but    dull    for   her, 

Here  in  the  country.")       Then  with  sudden  thought — 

"  Kathrina  ! " 

With    a   blushing   smile   she    turned, 
(She    had    heard    every   word),    and    then    her   aunt — 
Her   voluble,  dear   aunt — presented    me 
As   an    old   friend — the   son   of  an   old   friend — 
Whose   eyes   had   promised   he   would   visit   them, 
Although,  in   her   monopoly   of  speech, 
She    had    quite   shut    him    from    the   chance   to    say 
So    much    as   that. 

I    caught    the   period 

Quick   as    it    dropped,   and    spoke   the   happiness 
I    had   in    meeting   them,   and   gave   the   pledge — 
No    costly   thing   to   give — to    end    my   walks 
On    pleasant   nightfalls   at    the   little   house 
Under   the    mountain. 

I    had   spoken   more, 

But  then  the  carriage,  with  its  single  horse, 
For  which  they  waited,  rattled  to  the  steps, 
And  we  descended.  To  their  lofty  seats 


84  Katkrina 

I   helped    the    pair,    and    in    my    own    I   held 
For   one  sweet    moment,    hand  of  all  the   hands 
In    the    wide    world    I    longed    to    clasp    the    most. 
A    plain    "  Good    Evening,    Sir,"    was   all    I    won 
From   its    possessor ;    but   her   lively    aunt 
With .  playful    menace   shook   her   fan   at    me, 
And  said  :    "  Remember,    Paul ! "    and    rode   away. 

"  A    worldly    woman,    Sir ! "    growled    a    grum    throat. 
I    turned    and   saw    the  sexton.      Query:    "Which?" 
"  I    mean    the    aunt".  .  ."  And  what   about  the    niece  ? " 
"Too   fine   for   common   people!"   (with   a   shrug). 
"  I    think    she    is,"    I    said,    with    quiet    voice, 
And    turned   my   feet    toward   home. 

A   pious  girl ! 

And    what    could    I    be    to    a    pious    girl  ? 
What    could   she    be   to    me  ?     Weak   questions,   these, 
And    vain    perhaps  ;    but   such    as   young   men   ask 
On   slighter   spur   than    mine. 

She   had   bestowed 

Her   love,    her   life,    her   goodly   self  on    Heaven, 
And    had    been   nobly   earnest   in    her   gift. 


Kathrina  85 

Before   all   lovers    she   had    chosen    Christ  ; 
Before   all   idols,    God  ;    before   all   wish 
And    will   of  loving   man,  her   heart   and   hand 
Were   pledged    to   duty.     Could   she    be   a   wife  ? 
Could   she  be    mine,    with    such    unstinted   wealth 
Of  love,   and   love's    devotion,    as    I    craved  ? 
Would    she   not   leave    me   for   a    Sunday   School 
Before     the     first     moon's     wane  ?      Would     she     not 

seek 

The   cant   and   snuffle   of  conventicles 
"  At   early   candle-light,"    aird    sing   her   hymns 
To   drivelling   boors,    and    cheat   me   of  her   songs  ? 
Would   she   exhaust  herself  in    "  doing   good " 
After   the    modern   styles — in    patching   quilts, 
And    knitting   socks,    and    bearing   feeble   tracls 
To  dirty   little   children — not    to    speak 
Of  larger   work   for   missionary   folk  ? 
Would   there    not   come  a  time    (O !  fateful    time !) 
When    Dorcas   and   her   host    would    fill   my   house, 
And    I    by   courtesy   be   held   at   home 
To   entertain    their   twaddle,  and    to    smile, 
While   in    God's    name   and    lovely    Charity's 
They  would  consume  my  substance  ?     Would  she  not 
Become    the   stern   and    stately   president 


86  Kaihriua 

Of  some    society,   or    figure    in    the    list 
Of  slim    directresses    in    spectacles  .•* 

So    much   for   questions  :    then    reflections    came. 
These   pious   women    make    more   careful    wives 
Than   giddy   ones.      They   do    not    run    away, 
Though,  doubtless,  husbands  live    whose    hearts    would 

heal, 

Broken   by   such   a   blow !      The   time    they   give 
To   worship   and   to   pious    offices 
Defrauds   the   mirror   mainly ;    and    the   gold 
That   goes   for   charity   goes    not   for   gems. 

Besides,   these   pious    and    believing   wives 

Make   gentle    mothers,    who,  with   self-control 

And   patient   firmness,   train    their   children   well — 

A   fact   to   be   remembered.       But,  alas  ! 

They  train    their   husbands    too,    and    undertake 

A   mission    to   their   souls,   so   gently   pushed, 

So   tenderly,   they   may   not   take   offence, 

Or   punish   with   rebuff ;    and    yet,   dear   hearts  ! 

With   such   persistence,  that    they    reach    the   raw 

Before   they  know    it :    so    it   comes    to    tears 

At   last,  with    comfort    in    an    upper    room. 


Kathrina  87 

But    then — a    seal    is    sacred    to    them,   and    a    purse 
Or   pocket-book,   though    in    a   dressing-room 
With    shutters    and    a   key  ! 

Thus    wrapped    in    thought, 
And    selfish    calculation   of  the   claims 
Of  one   my   peer,  or   my   superior 
In    every    personal    and    moral    grace, 
I    walked    along,   till    on    my    consciousness 
Flashed    the   absurdity   of  my    conceits 
And    my    assumptions,    and    I    laughed    outright — 
Laughed    at   myself,   so   loudly   and   so   long 
That    I    was    startled.       Not    for    many    months 
Had    sound    of  mirth    escaped    me  ;    and    my   voice 
Rang    strangely    in    my    ears,   as    if  the    lips 
Of  one    long   dead    had    spoken. 

I    received 

The    token    of  returning   healthfulness 
With    warm    self-gratulation.       I    had    touched 
The    magic   hand    that    held    new  life   for    me : 
The   cloud   was   lifted,    and    the   burden    gone. 
The   leaf  within    my   book    of  fate    that    gloomed 
With    awful    records,   washed  and   blotched   by   tears — 


88 


Kathnna 


Blown   by   a   woman's    breath    from    finger-tips 
That    knew   not   what   they  did — was    folded    back  ; 
And    all    the    next    white    page    held    but    one    word- 
One    word    of  gold    and    flame — its    title-crown, 
That   wrought    a   rosy    nimbus    for   itself ; 
And   that   one   word    was    LOVE. 

The    laggard   days 

My    pride    or    my    propriety    imposed 
Upon   desire,  before   my    eyes    could    see 
The   object   of  my    new-born    passion,  passed  ; 


And    in    the    low    hours    of  an    afternoon, 
Bright    with    the    largess    of  a    kingly    shower 


Kathrina  89 

Whose   chariot-wheels    still    thundered    in    the    East, 
Leaving   the   West   aflame,   I    sought    the    meads, 
And    once    again,   thrilled    by   foretasted  joy, 
Walked    toward    the   mountain. 

While    I    walked,   the   rain 
Fell   like   a   veil   ot   gauze    between    my   eyes 
And    the   blue    wall  ;    and    from    the   precious    spot 
That    held    the   object  of  my   thought,   there    sprang 
An    iridal   effulgence,   faint   at   first, 
But   brightening   fast,  and   leaping   to   an   arch 
That   spanned    the    heavens — a    miracle   of  light  ! 

"  There's    treasure    where    the   rainbow   rests,"    I    said. 

Would   it    evade    me,   as,  for   years    untold, 

It    had   evaded    every    childish   dupe 

Whose   feet    had    chased    the    bright,  elusive   cheat  ? 

Would    it   evade    me  ? — question    that    arose, 

And   loomed    with    darker   front    and    huger   form 

Than    the   dark    mountain,  and    more    darkly   loomed 

And    higher   rose   as    the   long   path    grew   short  ! 

Would    it    evade    me  ?      Like   a   passing   smile 

The    rainbow   faded    from    the    mountain's    face  ; 

And    Hope's    resplendent    iris,    which    illumed 


90  Kathrina 

My   question,  grew  phantasmal,   and  at  length 

Evanished,   leaving   but   a   doubtful    blur. 

Would   it   evade   me  ?     Gods !   what   wealth   or   waste 

Of  precious    life   awaited   the    reply! 

Was    it   a   coward's    shudder   that   o'erswept 

My   frame   at    thought   of  possible   repulse 

And   possible   relapse  ? 

"  Oh  !    there   he   comes  !  " 
I    heard    the   mistress   of  the  cottage    say 
Behind   a   honeysuckle.     Did    I    smile  ? 
It   was   because   the   fancy   crossed    me    then 
That  the   announcement   was   like  one    which    rings 
Over   the   polar   seas,    when,    from    his   perch, 
The   lookout   bruits    a  long-expected  whale ! 
Then,    sweeping   the   piazza   from   the   spot 
Where   with    her   niece   she   sat,   she  hailed    me   with : 
"  So,   you   are   come   at   last !     How  very   sad 
These   men    have    so   much    business  !      Tell    me   how 
You   got   away ;   how    soon   you    must   return  ; 
Who'  suffers    by   your   absence ;   what    the    news, 
And   whether    you   are    well  ? " 

Brisk    medicine 


Kathrina  9 1 

These   words    to    me,    and    timely   given.     They    broke 
The   spell   of  fear,   and   banished    my    restraint. 
She    took    my   arm,   and   led    me    to    her    niece, 
Who   greeted   me   as   if  some   special   grace 
Of  courtesy   were   due,    to    make   amends 
For   the    familiar   badinage    her   aunt 
Had    poured    upon    me. 


92  Kathrina 

They   had    come    without- 
One    with    her    work,    the    other   with    her    book — 
To  taste   the   freshness    of  the    evening   air, 
Washed   of  the   hot   day's    dust    by    rain  ;    to    hear 
The    robin's    hymn   of  joy ;   and    watch    the    clouds 
That   canopied    with   gold   the    sinking   sun. 
The   maiden   in   a   pale-blue    muslin    robe — 
Dyed    with   forget-me-nots,    I    fancied    then, 
And   sweet   with   life   in    every   fold,    I    knew— 
A   blush-rose   at   her   throat,    and    in    her   hair 
A   sprig   of  green    and    white,    was    lovelier 
Than   sky   or   landscape ;    and    her   low    words    fell 
More   musically   than  the   robin's    hymn. 
So,   with    my    back    to    other    scene    and    sound, 
I    faced    the   faces,  took   the   proffered    chair, 
And    looked    and   listened. 

"  Tell    us    of  yourself," 

Spoke    the    blunt    aunt,   with    license    of  her    years. 
"  What   are   you   doing   now  ? " 

"  Nothing,"    I    said. 
"  And   were   you    not    the   boy   who   was    to   grow 


Kathrina  93 

Into    a   great,  good    man,  and    write   fine    books, 
And.   have    no   end   of  fame  ? " 

The    question    cut 

Deeper   than    she    intended.       The    hot    blush 
And    stammering   answer    told    her    of  the    hurt, 
And    tenderly    she    tried    to    heal    the    wound  : 
"  I    know   that   you    have    suffered  ;   but   your   hours 
Must    not   be    told   by   tears.      The   life   that   goes 
In    unavailing   sorrow   goes    to    waste." 

"  True,"    I    replied,    "  but   work   may    not    be   done 
Without   a   motive.       Nexrer   worthy    man 
Worked    worthily    who    was    not    moved    by    love. 
When    she    I    loved,  and    she    who    loved    me   died. 
My    motive   died  ;    and    i.t   can    never   rise 
Till    trump    of  love    shall    call    it    from    the   dust 
To    resurrection." 

I    spoke   earnestly, 

Without   a   thought    that   other   ears    than    hers 
Were   listening    to   my   words  ;   but   when    I    looked, 
I    saw   the   maiden's    eyes    were   dim    with    tears. 
I    knew   her   own    experience   was    touched, 


94 


Kathrina 


And    that    her   heart    made   answer   to   my   own 
In    perfect    sympathy. 

To   change   the    drift, 

I    took   her   book,  and    read   the   title-page : 
"  So   you    like   poetry,"    I    said. 

"  So   well   my   aunt 
Finds   fault   with    me." 

"  You   write,    perhaps  ? " 
"Not  I." 

"A   happy    woman!"    I    exclaimed;    "in    truth, 

The   first    I    ever    found    affecting   art 

Who    shunned    expression    by    it.      If  a   girl 

Like   painting,  she   must   paint  ;    if  poetry, 

She   must   write   verses.       Can    you    tell    me    why 

(For    sex    marks    no    distinction    in    this    thing), 

Men   with    a   taste   for   art    in    finest    forms 

Cherish   the   fancy   that    they    may   become, 

Or   are,   Art's    masters  ?      You    shall    see   a   man 

Who    never   drew   a   line    or   struck   an    arc 


Kathriiia  95 

Direct   an   architect,   and   spoil    his    work, 

Because,  forsooth  !    he   likes   a   tasteful    house  ! 

He   likes    a   muffin,   but    he   does    not   go 

Into   his    kitchen    to   instruct   his    cook, — 

Nay,   that   were    insult.       He    admires    fine    clothes, 

But   trusts   his    tailor.       Only    in    those   arts 

Which    issue   from    creative   potencies 

Does   his   conceit    engage    him.      He   could   learn 

The   baker's    trade,  and   learn    to   cut   a   coat, 

But   never   learn    to    do    that    one   great    deed 

Which   he   essays." 

"  'Tis    not    a   strange    mistake 

These    people    make " — she   answered,   thoughtfully. 
"  Art   gives    them    pleasure  ;    and    they   honor   those 
Whose   heads   and   hands    produce   it.       If  they   see 
The   length   and   breadth    and   beauty   of  a   thought 
Embodied   by   another, — if  they   hold 
The   taste,   the   culture,   the   capacity, 
To    measure   values    in    the   things    of  art, 
Why   cannot    they   create  ?      Why   cannot    they 
Win    to    themselves    the   honor   they   bestow 
On    those    who   feed    them  ?      Is    it   very   strange 
That  those   who    know    how   sweet    the   gratitude 


96  Kathrina 

Which   the    true   artist    stirs,   should    burn    to    taste 
That   gratitude   themselves  ?  " 

"  Not    strange,   perhaps," 
I    said,    "  and    yet,   it    is    a    sad    mistake ; 
For   countless    noble   lives    have   gone    to    waste 
In    work    which    it    inspired." 

Here    spoke    the    aunt : 

"  You    are   a   precious   pair  ;    and    if  you    know 
What   you    are    talking    of,    you    know  a    deal 
More   than   your   elders.      By  your   royal   leave, 
I    will   retire  ;    for    I    can    lay    the    cloth 
For   kings   and   queens,  though    I    may   fail    to    know 
Their   lore   and    language.      You   can    eat,   I    think  ; 
And   hear   a   tea-bell,  though   you    hear   not    me." 
Thus    speaking,  in    her   crisp,  good-natured   way, 
The   lady   left    us. 

When    she   passed   the   door, 
And   laughter   at    her  jest   had   had    its    way, 
I    said  :    "  It    takes    all    sorts   to    make   a   world." 

"  How    many,   think   you  ?      Only    one,    two,    three," 


Kathrina  97 

The    maiden    said.     "  Here   we   have   all   the    world 

In    this    one   cottage — artist,   teacher,   taught, 

In — not   to   mar   the  order   of  the   scale 

For   courtesy — yourself,   myself,   my   aunt. 

You   are   an    artist,  so   my   aunt    reports  ; 

But,   as    an    artist,  you   are    naught   to   her. 

And    now,  to   broach   a   petted    theory, 

Let   me   presume   too   boldly,   while    I    say 

She   cannot   understand   you,  though    I    can  ; 

You   cannot   measure   her,  though    she   is    wise. 

You    have   not    much    for   her,  and    that   you    have 

You   cannot   teach    her  ;    but    I,   knowing   her, 

Can    pick   from   your   creations    crumbs    of  thought 

She   will    find    manna.       In    the   hands    of  Christ 

The   five   loaves   grew,   the   fishes    multiplied ; 

And    He   to    his   disciples   gave   the   feast — 

They   to    the   multitude.      Artists   are    few, 

Teachers   are  thousands,  and    the   world    is   large. 

Artists   are   nearest    God.       Into    their   souls 

He   breathes    his    life,  and  from  their  hands   it  comes 

In   fair,  articulate   forms    to   bless    the    world  ; 

And   yet,   these    forms    may   never   bless    the    world 

Except   its    teachers    take    them    in    their    hands, 

And   give   each    man    his   portion." 

13 


98  Kathrina 

As    she   spoke 

In   earnest   eloquence,    I    could   have   knelt, 
And  worshipped  her.     Her  delicate  cheek  was  flushed, 
Her  eyes  were  filled  with  light,  and   her  closed   book 
Was   pressed   against   her  heart,  whose   throbbing  tide 
Thridded   her    temples.     I    was   half  amused, 
Half  rapt   in   admiration  ;    and   she   saw 
That   in  my   eyes   at   which  she  blushed   and   paused. 
"  Your  pardon,    Sir,"   she  said.     "  It   ill   becomes 
A    teacher  to  instruct   an    artist." 

"  Nay, 

It   does   become   you   wondrously,"    I    said, 
With    light    but    earnest    words.     "  Pray   you    go    on  ; 
And    pardon    all   that   my   unconscious   eyes 
Have   done  to   stop   you." 

"  I   have   little   more 

That    I    would   care   to   say :    you   have    my    thought," 
She   answered ;    "  yet    there's   very   much   to   say, 
And   you    should   say   it." 

"  Not    I,    lady,    no  : 
A   poet   is   not   practical   like   you, 


Kathrina  99 

Nor   sensible   like   you.     You   can   teach   him 
As   well   as    tamer   folk.     In    truth,    I    think 
He   needs  instruction    quite   as    much   as    they 
For   whom   he   writes." 

"  That's   possible,"   she   said, 
With    an    arch    smile. 

4<  Will   you   explain    yourself  ?  ' 

"  Well — if  you  wish    it — yes  : "    she    made    reply. 
"And    first,    my   auditor   must  know   that    I 
Believe    in   inspiration,   though   he   knows 
So   much    as    that   already,    from    my   words, — 
Believe   that   God   inspires    the   poet's   soul, — 
That    He   gives   eyes   to   see,   and    ears   to    hear 
What   in    his    realm   holds   finest    ministry 
For   highest   aptitudes    and    needs   of  men, 
And   skill   to   mould    it    into    forms    of  art 
Which   shall   present   it   to  the    world   he   serves. 
Sometimes    the   poet   writes   with    fire  ;    with    blood 
Sometimes  ;   sometimes   with   blackest   ink : 
It    matters    not.      God   finds    his    mighty   way 
Into    his   verse.      The   dimmest    window-panes 


ioo  Kathrina 

Let    in    the    morning    light,   and    in    that    light 

Our   faces    shine   with    kindled   sense   of  God 

And   his   unwearied   goodness  ;    but   the   glass 

Gets   little   good   of  it  ;    nay,  it   retains 

Its   chill   and   grime   beyond   the   power   of  light 

To   warm   or   whiten.       E'en   the   prophet's   ass 

Had   better  eyes    than    he   who   strode   his   back, 

And,  though    the   prophet   bore   the   word   of  God, 

Did   finer   reverence.      The    Psalmist's   soul 

Was    not   a   fitting   place   for   psalms    like   his 

To   dwell   in   over-long,  while   waiting   words, 

If  I    read    rightly.      As'  for   the   old   seers, 

Whose   eyes    God    touched   with   vision    of  the   life 

Of  the   unfolding   ages,   I    must   doubt 

Whether   they   comprehended    what    they   saw, 

Or   knew   what   they   recorded.      It    remains 

For   the   world's    teachers    to   expound    their   words  ; 

To   probe   their   mysteries  ;    and   relegate 

The   truth    they   hold   in    blind    significance 

Into   the   fair   domains   of  history 

And   human   knowledge.      Am    I    understood  ? " 

"  You   are,"    I    answered  ;    "  and    I    cannot    say 
You    flatter   me.      God    takes    within    his    hand 


Kathrina  i  o  i 

A   thing   of  his   contrivance    which   we   call 

A    poet  :    then    He   puts    it    to    his   lips, 

And   speaks    his    word,   and   puts    it   down   again — 

The   instrument    not   better   and   not    worse 

For   being  handled  ; — not   improved   a   whit 

In    quality,   by    quality    of  that 

Which   it   conveys.       Do    I    report   aright  ? 

Or   do   you   prompt   me  ? " 

You    are   very   apt," 

She   said,    "  at   learning,   but    a   little    bald 
In    statement.       Nathless,  be   it   as    you    say  • 
And   we   shall   see   how   it    is    possible 
That   poets    need    instruction    quite    as    much 
As   those  for  whom   they   write.      What  sad,   bad  men 
The   brightest   geniuses    have   been  !       How   weak, 
How   mean    in    character !    how    foul    in    life  ! 
How   feebly   have   the   best   of  them    retained 
The   wealth    of  good   and   beauty    which    has    flowed 
In   crystal    streams    from    God,   the    fountain-head, 
Through   them   to   fertilize    the    world !     Nay,  worse : 
How   many   of   them    have    infused   the    tide 
With    tincture    of  their   own    impurity, 
To    poison    sweetest,    unsuspecting   lips, 


IO2  Kathrina 

And   breed   diseases   in   the    finest   blood ! 

And   poets    not   alone,   and   not   the   worst  ; 

But   painters,    sculptors — those   whose    kingly   power 

And   aptitude   for   utterance   divine 

Hare  made  them  artists  : — how  have  these   contemned 

In    countless   instances    the   God   of  Heaven 

Who   filled  them  with  his  fire !     Think  you  that  these 

Could   compass   their   achievements   of  themselves  ? 

Can    streams    surpass    their   fountains?" 

"  Nay,"    I    said, 

In   quick   response,    "  Your   argument   is    good  ; 
But   is   the   artist   nothing  ?      Is   he    naught 
But   an   apt   tool — a   mouth-piece   for   a   voice? 
You    make   him    but   the   spigot   of  a   cask 
Round   which   you,   teachers,    wait    with    silver   cups 
To   bear   away   the   wine   that   leaves    it   dry. 
You   magnify   your   office." 

"We   do  all 

Wait   upon    God   for   every   grace   and   good," 
She    then    rejoined.     "  You   take   it   at   first    hands, 
And    we   from   yours  :   the   multitude    from    ours. 
It   may   leach    through    our   souls,    if  our   poor   wills 


Kathrina  \  03 

Retain   it   not,   and   drench    the   fragrant    sand. 

And   if  I    magnify   my   office — well! 

'Tis  a   great   office.     What   would   come   of  all 

The   music   of  the   masters,   did   not   we 

Wait   at    their   doors,    to   publish    to    the   world 

What    God   has   told    them  ?     They  would  be  as  mute 

As   the   dumb    Sphinx.     They    write   a   symphony, 

An   opera,   an    oratorio, 

In   language   that   the   teacher   understands, . 

And    straight   the    whole   world    echoes    to    its    strains. 

It   shrills   and    thunders    through    cathedral  glooms 

From    golden    organ-tubes    and   voiceful   choirs  ; 

The    halls   of  art   of  both   the   hemispheres 

Resound   with   its   divinest   melodies  ; 

The   street   stirs    with   the   impulse,   and   we    hear 

The   blare   of  martial   trumpets,   and    the   tramp 

Of  bannered   armies    swaying   to   its    rhythm  ; 

The    hurdy-gurdies   and    the   whistling   boys 

Adopt   the   lighter   strains  ;    and   round   and   round 

A   million    souls    its    hovering   fancies   float, 

Like   butterflies    above   a  fair   parterre, 

Till,    settling   one    by   one,    they   sleep   at   last  ; 

And   lo !    two   petals   more   on    every   flower ! 

And    this    not   all  ;    for   though    the   master   die, 


IO4  Kathrina 

The   teacher   lives   forever.      On    and   on, 

Through    all    the   generations,    he    shall   preach 

The   beautiful  evangel  ; — on   and  on, 

Till   our   poor   race   has   passed    the   tortuous   years 

That   lie   prevening   the   millennium, 

And   slid   into  that   broad   and   open    sea, 

He   shall   sail,    singing   still   the   songs   he   learned 

In   the   world's   youth,   and    sing   them    o'er   and   o'er 

To   lapping   waters,    till   the   thousand,  leagues 

Are   overpast,    and   argosy   and   crew 

Ride   at    their   port." 

"  True   as    to    facts,"    I    said  ; 
"  And   as    to   prophecies,    most   credible ; 
But,   as   an    illustration,    false,    I    think. 
That   which   the   voice   and    instrument   may   do 
For   the   composer,    types    may   do   for   those 
Who   mint   their   thoughts    in   verse.     Music    is   writ 
In    language   that   the   people   do    not    read — 
Is   lame  in    that — and   needs   interpreters ; 
While   poetry,   e'en   in    its    noblest   forms 
And   boldest   flights,    speaks   their   vernacular. 
Your   aunt   can    read    the   book   within   your   hand 
As    well   as   you,    if  she   desire,   yet   finds 


Kathrina  105 

Your    score   all    Greek,    until   you  vocalize 

Its    wealth   of  hidden    meaning.     As    for   arts 

Which   meet    the    eye    in    picture    and    in    form, 

They   ask  no  mediator   but    the   light — 

No   grace    but    privilege    to    shine    with    naught 

Between   them   and   the   light.      They   are    themselves 

Expositors    of  that   which   they    expose, 

Or    they    are    nothing.     All    the    middle-men — 

The    fools    profound — who    take    it    on    their    tongues 

To    play    the    showmen,    strutting    up    and    down, 

And    mouthing   of  the   beauty   that   they   hide, 

Are    an   impertinence." 

"  You   leave    no    room 

For   critics,"    she   suggested,    with    a   smile. 
"  We    must    not    spoil   a   trade,    or    starve    the   wives 
And    innocent   babes    it   feeds." 

"  No   care   for   them  !  " 

I    made   reply.       "  They   do    not    need    much   room — 
Men    of  their    build — and    what    they    need    they    take. 
The    feeble    conies    burrow    in    the    rocks  ; 
But    the    trees    grow,    and    we   are    not    aware 

Of  space    encumbered    by    them." 

'4 


1 06  Kathrina 

'•  Yet    the    fact 

Still    stands    untouched,"    she    added,    thoughtfully, 
"  That    greatest    artists    speak    to    fewest    souls, 
Or    speak    to    them    directly.     They    have    need 
Of  no    such    ministry    as    waits    the    beck 
Of  the    composer  ;    but    they    need    the    life, 
If  not    the    learning,    of   the    cultured    few 
Who    understand    them.     If  from    out    my    book 
I    gather   that    which  feeds    me,    and    inspires 
A    nobler,    sweeter   beauty    in    my   life, 
And    give    my    life    to    those    who    cannot    win 
From      the      dim      text      such      boon,     then      have     I 

borne 

A    blessing    from    the    book,    and    been    its    best 
Interpreter.     The    bread    that    comes    from    heaven 
Needs    finest    breaking.     Some    there    doubtless    are — 
Some    ready    souls — that    take    the    morsel    pure 
Divided    to    their    need  ;    but    multitudes 
Must    have    it    in    admixtures,    menstruums, 
And    forms    that    human    hands    or    human    life 
Have   moulded.     Though    the    multitudes    may    find 
Something    to    stir   and    lift    their    sluggish    souls 
In    sight    of  great    cathedrals,   or    in  view 
Of  noble   pictures,    yet    they    see    not    all. 


Katkrina  107 

And    not    the    best.     That   which    they    cio    not    see 
Must    enter    higher    souls,    and    there,    by    ait 
Or   life,   be   fashioned    to   their    want." 

"  Your    thought 

Grows    subtle,"    I    responded,    "  and    I    grant 
Its   force    and    beauty.     If  the    round    truth   lie 
Somewhere    between    us,    and    I    see    the    face 
It    turns    to    me    in    stronger    light    than    you 
Reveal    its    opposite,    why,    let    the    fault    be    mine  : 
It    is    not    yours.     You    have    instructed    me, 
And    won    my    thanks." 

"  Instructed    you  ?  "    she  said, 

With    a    fine    blush  :    "  you    mock,    you    humble    me, 
And    have    I    talked    so    much,    with    such    an    air, 
That,    either   earnestly    or    in    a   jest, 
You    can    say    this    to    me  ? " 

" 'Tis    not    a    sin. 

In    latitude    of  ours,"    [    made    reply, 
"  To    talk    philosophy  ;    'tis    only    rare 
For    beardless    lips    to    do    so.      I    have    caught 
From    yours    a    finer,    more    suggestive    scheme 


io8  Kathrina 

Than   all    the   wise    have   taught    me    by   their   books, 
Or    by   their   voices.     I    will    think    of  it." 

"  Now   may   you   be   forgiven ! "   the   aunt    exclaimed, 
Approaching   unobserved.      "  There   never  lived 
A    quieter,   more   plainly    speaking   girl 
Than    my    Kathrina.     All   these   weeks   and    months, 
I    have   heard   naught   from   her  but    common   sense ; 
But  when  you  came,  why,  off  she  went ;  though  where 
It's    more    than    I    know.     You,    sir,    have    the    blame; 
And    you    must    lift    your   spell,    and    give    her   back 
'Just   as   you    found    her." 

"She    has    practised    well 

Her   scheme   on    us.     She    breaks    to   you    the   bread 
That    meets   your  want ;   to  me,  that   meets  my  own," 
I    said,    in    answering. 

"  Well,"   spoke   the   aunt, 

"  I    think    I'll    try    my   hand    at    breaking  bread  : 
So,   follow   me." 

We   followed    to   her   board, 
And   there,    in    converse   suited    to    the   hour 


Kathrina  i  og 

And    presence    of  our    hostess,   proved    ourselves — 
Quite    to    that    lady's    liking — of  the    earth. 
We    ate   her  jumbles    for   her,    sipped    her    tea, 
And    revelled    in    the    spicy    succulence 
Of  her   preserves. 

While   still    I    sat   at    ease, 

The    maiden's    eye,   with    quick,    uneasy   glance, 
Sought    the   clock's    dial.     Then    she    turned    to    me, 
And    said    with    sweet,    respectful    courtesy : 
"  Pray   you   excuse    my  presence  for   an    hour. 
A    duty    calls    me   out  ;  and    that    performed, 
I    will    return." 

I    saw   she   marked   my   look 
Of  disappointment — that    it    staggered    her — 
The   while   with    words   of  stiffest   commonplace 
I    gave   assent.     But    she    was    on    her  feet  ; 
And   soon    I    heard    her   light    step   on    the   stair, 
Seeking   her   chamber. 

"  Whither    will   she    go 

At    such    an    hour    as    this,    from    you    and    me  ? " 
I    coldly   questioned    of  the    keen-eyed    aunt. 


i  io  Kathrina 

"  You    men    are    very    curious,"    she    said. 

"  I    knew   you'd    ask    me.     Can't    a    lady    stir, 

But   you    must    call    her    to    account  ?     Who    knows 

She    may    not    have    some    rustic    lover    here 

With     whom    she     keeps     her    tryst  ?       Tis     an     old 

trick, 

Not   wholly   out   of  fashion    in    these    parts. 
What    matters    it  ?     She   orders    her   own    ways, 
And    has    discretion." 

With    lugubrious    voice 

I    said  :     "  You    trifle,    madam,    with    my    wish. 
I    know    the    lady    has    no    lover    here, 
And    so    do    you." 

"  I'm    not    so    sure    of  that !  " 

My    hostess    made    response  ;     and    then    she    laughed 
A    rippling,    rollicking    roulade,    and    shook 
Her    finger    at    me,    till    my    temples   burned 
With    the    hot    shame    she    summoned. 

"  There  !  "    I    said  ; 

"  You've    done   your  worst,    and   learned   so    much,    at 
least — 


Kathriiia  1 1 1 

That    I    admire    your    niece.     /  curious ! 
Well,    you   are   curious    and    cunning   too. 
Now,    in    the    moment    of  your    victory, 
Be   generous ;    and    tell    me  what    may    call 
The   lady   from    us." 

"  It    is    Thursday  night," 
She   answered  soberly, — "the   weekly   hour 
At    which    our   quiet    neighborhood    convenes 
For    social    worship.     You    may    guess    the    rest 
Without    my    telling ;    but    you    cannot    know 
With   what    anticipated    joy   she   leaves 
Our    company,    or    with    what    shining   face 
She    will    return." 

At    that,    I    heard    her   dress 
Sliding    the    flight,    and    rising,    made    my    way 
To    meet    her   at    its    foot.     A    happy    smile 
Illumed    her   features,    as    she   gave    her   hand 
With    thought    of  parting.     I    had    rallied   all 
My    self-control    and    gallantry    meanwhile, 
And     said  :       "  Not     here.       I'll     with     you,    by     your 

leave, 
So    far   as    you    may   walk." 


I  i  2  Katlirina 

There    was    a  flash 

Of  gladness    in    her  eyes,   and    in    her   thanks     . 
A    subtler   charm    than   gratitude. 

I    bade 

My   hostess   a   <;  good-night,"   and   left   her   door, 
Declining   her  entreaty   to    return. 
We   walked   in   silence,   side   by  side,    a   space, 
And   then,   with   feigned   indifference,    I    spoke : 
"Your  aunt   has    told   me    of    your   errand  ;    else, 
It   had   been   modest   in   me   to    withhold 
This   tendance   on   your  steps.     She   tells    me   you 
Are   quite   a   devotee.      Whom    do   you   meet, 
In   neighborhood   like   this,    to   give    a  zest 
To   hour   like   this  ? " 

"  Brothers    and   sisters    all," 
She    said    in   low    reply  ;    "  and   as   for   zest, 
There's   never   lack   of  it   where   there    is   love. 
When   families    convene,   they    have    no    need 
Of  more    than    love    to    give    them    festal   joy  ; 
Nor   do   they    with    discrimination   judge 
Between  the   high   and   humble.     These   are   one ; 
Love   makes   them    one." 


Kathrina  1 1 3 

"  And   you    are  one   with    these  ? " 

"  Though    most    unworthy   of  such    fellowship, 
I    trust    that    I    am   one   with   these  ; — that   they 
Are   one   with    me,    and   reckon   me   among 
Their   number." 

"  Can    they   do   you   any   good  ? " 

"  They   can,"    she   said ;    "  but   were   it   otherwise, 

I     can     serve     them  ;      and     so     should     seek     them 

still. 
I   help   them    in    their   songs." 

We   reached    too    soon 
The   open   doorway   of  the   humble   hut 
Which,    for   long   years,    had   held  the   village   school, 
And,    at   a   little   distance,   paused.     The    room, 
Battered   and   black   by  wantonest   abuse 
Of  the   rude   youth,   was  lit   by   feeble   lamps, 
Brought   by  the   villagers ;    and   scattered   round 
Upon   the   high   hacked   benches,    hardly   less 
Rude  and    rough- worn   than    they,    the   worshippers 

In    silence   sat.     It    was   no   place   for   words. 

15 


114  Kathriiia 

I    took    the    lady's   hand,    and    said    "  good-night ! " 
In    whisper.     Then    she   turned,  and   disappeared 
Within    the    sheltered   gloom  ;    but   I    could   see 
The   care-worn    cheeks   light    up   with    pleasant   fire 
As    she    passed    in  ;    and    e'en    the    fainting    lamps 
Flared    with     new    life,    the    while    they    caught     the 
breath 


Of  her  sweet  robe.  Then  with  an  angry  heart 
I  turned  away,  and,  wrapped  in  selfish  thought. 
Took  up  the  walk  toward  home. 


Kathrina  1 1 5 

This    homely   group 

Of  Yankee   lollards    she   preferred    to    me ! 
These   poor,  pinched    boobies,  with    their  silly  wives — 
Ah  !   these    were  they   who   gave   her  overmuch 
In    the   bestowal    of  their  fellowship! 
These   crowned   her   with    a   peerless   privilege, 
Permitting   her   to    sit    with    them    an    hour 
As   a   dear   sister !      How   my    sore   self-love 
Burned    with    the    hot   affront ! 

With    lips    compressed, 

Or   blurting   forth   their   anger   and    disgust, 
I    strode   the    meadows,    stalked    the    silent    town, 
And    growled    and    groaned    in    sullen    helplessness 
About    the    streets,    until    the    midnight    bell 
Tolled    from    the   old   church    tower  ; — in    helplessness, 
For   mattered    nothing   what   or   who   she    was, 
(I    had    not    dared    or   cared    to    question    that), 
Or    how    offensive    in    her    piety 
And   her   devotion    to   the   tasteless   cult 
Of  the    weak   throng,    I    was    her   slave  ;    and   she — 
Her   own    and    God's.      The   miserable    strife 
Between    my   love   of    self  and    love   of  her 
I    knew    was    bootless  ;    and    the    trenchant    truth 


1 1 6  Kathrina 

Cut    to    the    quick.       She    held    within    her    hand 
My   heart,    my   life,   my   doom,   yet   knew   it   not  ; 
And   had   she   known,    her   soul    was    under   vows 
Which   would   forever   make   subordinate 
Their   recognized   possession. 

But    the    morn 

Brought   with    it   better   mood  and    calmer   thoughts. 
I    had   the   grace   to   gauge   the  heartlessness 
Of  my   exactions,   and    the   power   to   crush 
The   tyrant   wish    to    tear   her   from    the   throne 
To   which    she   clung.     I    said :    "  So    she   love    me 
As    a   true   woman    loves,   and   give   herself— 
Her  sweet,   pure   self — to    me,    and   fill    my   home 
With    her   dear   presence,    loyal   still    to    me 
In    wifely   love   and   wifely   offices, 
Though   she   abide   in    Christian    loyalty 
By   Christian    vows,   she   shall   have   liberty, 
And   hold   it    as    her   right." 

She   was    my    peer : 

No  weakling  girl,  who  would  surrender  will 
And  life  and  reason,  with  her  loving  heart, 
To  her  possessor  ; — no  soft,  clinging  thing 


Kathrina  \  1 7 

Who    would    find    breath    alone    within    the   arms 

Of  a   strong   master,    and   obediently 

Wait    on    his   whims    in    slavish    carefulness  ; — 

No   fawning,    cringing   spaniel,    to    attend 

His    royal    pleasure,   and   account    herself 

Rewarded    by   his    pats   and    pretty    words, 

But   a   round   woman,   who,    with    insight   keen, 

Had   wrought    a   scheme   of  life,    and    measured    well 

Her   womanhood  ;    had   spread    before   her   feet 

A   fine  philosophy   to   guide    her   steps  ; 

Had   won    a   faith    to    which    her   life    was    brought 

In    strict   adjustment — brain    and    heart    meanwhile 

Working    in  conscious    harmony    and   rhythm 

With   the   great  scheme    of  God's   great   universe, 

On    toward    her   being's    end. 

I    could    but    know 
Her   motives    were    superior   to    mine. 
I    could    but   feel   that   in   her   loyalty 
To    God   and   duty,    she   condemned    my   life. 
Into    her   woman's    heart,    thrown    open    wide 
In    holy   charity,   she   had  drawn    all 
Of  human    kind,    and    found    no    humblest    soul 
Too    humble   for    her    entertainment, — none 


1 1 8  Kathrina 

So    weak    it    could    return    no    grateful    boon 
For   what    she    gave ;    and    standing   modestly 
Within    her    scheme,    with    meekest    reverence 
She   bowed    to   those   above   her,    yet    with    strong 
And    hearty   confidence   assumed    a   place 
In    service   of  the    world,   as    minister 
Ordained  of  Heaven    to   break   to   it    the   bread 
She   took   from   other   hands.     And    she    was   one 
Who   could    see   all    there   was   of  good    in    me, — 
Could    measure   well   the   product   of  my    power, 
And    give    it    impulse    and    direction  ;    nay, 
Could    supplement    my   power ;   and    help    my   heart 
Against   its   foes. 

The   moment   that    I    thrust 
The    selfish    thirsting   for   monopoly 
Of  her   affections    from    my  godless   heart, 
She   entered    in,    and    reigned    a   goddess   there. 
If  she   had   fascinated    me   before 
And    fired   my   heart   with    passion,    now   she   bent 
My   spirit   to   profound    respect.     I    bowed 
To   the   fair   graces    of  her   character, 
Her   queenly   gifts,   and    the   beneficence 
Of  her    devoted    life     with    humbled    heart 


Katlirina  1 1 9 

And    self-depreciation.     All   of  God 

That    the    world   held   for   me,    I    found    in   her ; 

And    in    her,    all    the    God    I    sought.       She    was 

My   saviour   from    myself  and   from    my   sins ; 

For,    with    my   worship   of  the    excellence 

Which    she  embodied,    came    the   purity 

And   peace   to    which,    through    all    my.  troubled    life, 

I    had   been    stranger.     Thoughts    and    feelings    all 

Were   sublimated    by   the    subtle    flame 

Which  wrapped  and  warmed  me ;  and  I  walked  as  one 

Might    walk   on    air,    with    things    of  earth    beneath, 

Breathing   a   rare,    supernal   atmosphere 

Which   every   sense   and   faculty   informed 

With    light   and   life   divine. 

What    need   to    tell 
Of  the   succeeding   summer   days,   and   all 


Their   deeds    and    incidents  ?      They   floated  by 
Like    silent    sails    upon    a   summer   sea, 


1 2O  Ka  tlir  ina 

That,   sweeping   in   from    farthest    heaven    at    morn, 

Traverse   the    vision,   and   at    evening    slide 

Out   into    heaven  again,    their   pennant-flames 

The   rosy   dawns   and   day-falls.      O'er   and   o'er 

I    walked    the     path,    and    crossed    the    stream,    that 

lay 

Between   me    and    the   idol   of  my   heart ;. 
And   every    day,   in    every  circumstance, 
I   found    her   still   the   same,   yet  not   the.   same ; 
For,    every   day,    some   unsuspected   grace, 
Or   some   fresh    revelation   of  her   wealth 
Of  character   and    culture,  touched    my   heart 
To   new   surprise,   and   overflowed    the   cup 
Whose   wine    was   life   to    me. 

Though    I    could    see 

That    I    was    not    unwelcome ;    though    I    knew 
I    gave   a   zest    to    her   sequestered   life, 
I    had    built    up    so    high    my   only    hope 
On    her   affection — I    had  given    myself 
So   wholly   to  the   venture   for   her   hand, 
I    did    not   dare    to    speak   of  love,   or   ask 
The   question    which,    unasked,    held    hopefully 


Kathruia  \  2 1 

My    destiny :    which    answered,    might    bring    doom 
Of  madness    or    of  death. 

Meanwhile,    I    learned 
The   lady's  history   from    other   lips 
Than    hers — her   aunt's.     Alas  !    the    old,   old   tale ! 
She   had   been   bred    to   luxury ;    and   all 
That  wealth   could  purchase    for   her,    or   the   friends 
Swarmed  by   its    golden   glamour   could   bestow, 
She   had   possessed.     But   he   who   won    the   wealth, 
Reaching     for     more,    slipped     from     his    height     and 

fell, 

Dragging   his    house   to   ruin.     Then  he   died — 
Died   in   disgrace  ;    and   all   his    thousand   friends 
Fell   off,   and   left   his    pampered   family, 
The   while    the   noisy   auctioneer   knocked   down 
His    house   and   household  gods,   and    set   adrift 
The   helpless    life   thus    cruelly   bereft. 
The   mother   lived  a   month:    the   rest   went   forth, 
Not   knowing   whither  ;   but   they   found   among 
The  poor   a   shelter   for   their   poverty, — 
Kathrina  with   her   aunt.     Thus,    in    few   words, 
A    tragedy   of  heart-breaks    and   of  death, 
Such    as    the    world    abounds    with. 


i  2  2  Kathrina 

But    this    girl, 

With    her    quick    instincts  and    her    brave,  good    heart, 
Determined    she    would    live    a    while,    and    learn 
What      lesson      God      would     teach     her.       This     she 

sought, 
And,    seeking,    found,    or    thought    she    found.       How 

well 

She    learned    the    lesson — what    the    lesson    was — 
Her   life,    thus    far  revealed,    and    waiting   still 
My   feeble   record,    shall   disclose.     Enough, 
just    now    and    here,    that   out    of  it    she    bore 
A   noble   womanhood,  accepting   all 
Her   great    misfortunes    as    the    discipline 
Of  a  -paternal    hand,    in   love   prescribed 
To   lead   her   to   her   place,   and    whiten    her 
For   Christian    service. 

All    the   summer    fled ; 

And    still    my   heart   delayed.     One   pleasant   eve, 
When   first   the   creaking   of  the   crickets    told 
Of  Autumn's   opening   door,    I    went   with   her 
To   ramble   in   the   fields.     We    touched    the    hem 
Of  the    dark    mountain's    robe,   that    falls    in    folds 
Of  emerald  sward   around    his    feet,    and    there 


Kathrinn 


Upon    its   tufted    velvet    we    sat  down. 

It    was    my    time   to   speak,    but    I    was   dull  ; 

And    silence,    painful   and    portentous,    hung 

Upon    us    both.     At    length,    she    turned    and    said 

"  Some   days    have   passed    since  you  were  latest    here. 

Have   you    been  ill  ?  " 


1 24  Ktithriiht 

"  No,    I    have    been    at   work 
I    answered, — "  at    my  own   delightful    work  ; 
The    first  since    first   we    met.     The    record    lies 
Where    I    may    reach    it    at    a    word    from    you. 
Command,   and    I    will    read    it." 

"  I    command," 

She   said,    responding   with   a   laugh.     "  Nay,    I 
Entreat.     I    used   your    word,    but    this    is    mine, 
And    has   a   better   sound    from    lips   of  mine. 
I  am    your   waiting   auditor." 

I    read  : 

"  Was    it   the   tale   of  a   talking  bird  ? 
Was    it    a    dream    of  the    night  ? 
When    have    I    seen    it  ?     Where   have    I    heard 
Of  the   haps   of  a   dainty   craft,    that    stirred 
My    spirit  with    affright  ? 

"  The    shallop    stands    out    from    the    sheltered    bay 

With    a    burden    of  spirits    twain, — 
A   woman    who   lifts   her   sad   eyes    to   pray, 
A   tall   youth,    trolling   a   roundelay, 

And    before    them    night,    and    the    main  : 


Kathrina  \  2  5 

"  O !    Star   of  The    Sea  !     They    will    come    to    harm : 

Nor   master   nor   sailor   is    there ! 
The    youth    clasps    the    mast    with    his    sinewy    arm, 
And   laughs  !     Does    he   hold  in  his  bosom  a  charm 
That   will   baffle   the   sprites    of  the   air  ? 

"  O  !    woe   to   the   delicate    ship  !     O  !    woe  ! 

For    the    sun    is    sunk,    and    behold ! 
The    trooping   phantoms    that   come   and   go 
In   the   sky  above  and    the  waves    below  ! 
Ho  !    The    wind    blows    wild    and    cold. 

"  The   woman    is    weeping    in    weak   despair  ; 

The   youth    still    clings    to    the    mast, 
With    cheeks    all    aflame,    and    with    eyes    that    stare 
At    the   phantoms    hovering   everywhere ; 

And    the   storm-rack  rises    fast! 

"  The   phantoms    close   on    the    flying   bark  ; 

They   flutter   about   her   peak  ; 
They    sweep    in    swarms  from    the    outer   dark  ; 
But   the  youth    at    the    mast    stands    still    and    stark, 
While    they    flap    his    stinging   cheek. 


1 26  Katlirina 

"  They   shiver   the    bolts   that   the   lightning  flings ; 

They  bellow  and    roar   and    hiss ; 
They   splash    the    deck    with    their   slimy    wings — 
Monstrous,  horrible,   ghastly    things — 

That    climb   from    the    foul    abyss. 

• 

'  Xo   star   shines    out   at   the  woman's   prayer ; 

O  !    madly   distraught    is   she ! 

And    the    bark   drives    on    with    her-  wild    despair, 
With    shrieking    fiends    in   the    crowded    air, 

And    fiends   on    the    swarming    sea. 

"  Then   out    of  the   water   before   their   sight 
A  shape  loomed   bare   and   black  ! 

So   black    that   the    darkness    bloomed    with    white  ; 

So   black  that    the   lightning  grew  strangely  bright 
And   it   lay   in    the   shallop's    track! 

"  O !    fierce  was  the  shout   of  the   goblins    then  ! 

How   the    gibber   and    laugh    went    round ! 
The    shout    and    the    laugh    of  a    thousand    men, 
Echoed   and  answered,   and    echoed   again, 

Would    have    been    a    feebler    sound. 


Kathrina  \  2  7 

Straight    toward  the   blackness  drove    the  ship  ; 

But    the   youth    still    clung   to  the    mast : 
'  I    have   read,'   quoth    he,    with    a   proud,  cold   lip, 
'  That    the   devil    gets    never   a   man    on    the   hip 

Whom    he   scares    not,   first   or   last' 

Nearer   the   blackness  loomed ;    and  the   bark 

Scudded   before    the   breeze  ; 
Nearer  the    blackness   loomed,    and    hark ! 
The   crash    of  breakers    out   of  the   dark, 

And    the    shock   of  plunging   seas  ] 

O !    woe !    for   the    woman's    wits   ran   daft 

With    the   fearful   bruit    and    burst  ; 
She    sprang    to    her   feet,    and   flitting   aft, 
She  plunged  in  the  sea,  and  the  black  waves  quaffed 
The   sweet   life    they   had   cursed 

Light   leaped    the   bark   on    the    mountain-breast 

Of  a   tenth-wave   out    to   land ; 
While  the   sprites   of  the    sea   fell    off  to    rest, 
And   the   youth,    unharmed,    became    the   guest 

Of  the    elves  of  the    silent   land. 


1 28  Katkrina 

"  With    banter    and    buffet    they   pressed   around  ; 

They    tied    his    strong   hands    fast  ; 
But    he   laughed,  and  said,    '  I    have    read  and  found 
That    the  devil   throws    never  a  man    to    the  ground 

Whom    he    scares    not,    first   or   last.' 

"  Under   the   charred    and    ghastly  gloom, 

Over   the  flinty   stones, 
They   led    him   forth    to    his    terrible   doom, 
And,    plunged    in    a   deep   and    noisome   tomb 

They   sat   him    among   the   bones. 

"  They   left    him    there    in    the    crawling   mire : 

They   could    neither   maim    nor   kill  : 
For    fiends    of  water,    and   earth,    and    fire, 
Are  baffled   and    beaten    by    the  ire 
Of  a  dauntless    human    will. 

"  Days    flushed   and    faded,    months    passed    away, 

He   knew   by   the    golden    light 
That    shot,    through    a   loop   in    the    wall,    the    ray 
Which    parted    the    short    and    slender    clay 

From    the    long   and    doleful    night. 


Kathrina  \  29 

"  Was    it  a  vision   that   cheated   his   eyes  ? 

Was    he  awake,    or   no  ? 

He   stared    through    the   loop    with    keen   surprise ; 
For   he    saw    a  sweet  angel   from    the   skies, 

With   white   wings,   folded   low. 

"  Could    she    not    loose    him   from    his    thrall. 

And    lead   him    into    the    light  ? 
'Ah    me!'    he   murmured,    'I    dare   not   call, 
Lest    she   may   doubt   it   a   goblin's   waul, 

And   leave    me    in    swift   affright ! ' 

"  She    plumed    her   wings   with   a   noiseless    haste ; 

He  could  neither  call  nor  cry : 
She  vanished  into  the  sunny  waste, 
Into  far  blue  air  that  he  longed  to-  taste ; 

And    he   cursed    that   he   could    not   die. 

'  But   she   came   again,   and    every   day 

He  worshipped  her  where  she  shone ; 
And  again  she  left  him  and  floated  away, 
But  his  faithless  tongue  refused  to  pray 

For    the    boon    she    could    give    alone. 
17 


1 3o 


Kathrina 


"  And    there    he    sits    in    his   dumb   despair, 

And   his   watching   eyes    grow   dim  : 
Would    God   that  his    coward   lips    might   dare 
To    utter  the   word    to    the   angel   fair, 
That  is   life   or   death    to    him ! " 


I    marked   her   as    I    read,   a   furtive   glance 
Filling   each    pause.     The   passion    of  the   piece, 
Flaming   and   fading,    ever   and   anon, 
Mirrored   itself  within    her   tender   eyes, 
Themselves    the   mirror  of  her   tender   soul, 
And  fixed   attent    upon    my   face    the    while. 


Kathrina  1 3 1 

She   had    not   caught    my   meaning,    but   had    heard 
Only   a  weird,    wild   story.     When    I    paused, 
Folding   the  manuscript,    I    saw  a   shade 
Of  disappointment   sweep    her   face,    and    marked 
A   question    rising   in   her   eyes.     She   knew 
That    I    was    waiting   for  her   words,   and    turned 
Her   look   away,    and   for   long   moments   gazed 
Into    the   brooding   dusk. 

"Speak    it!"    I    said. 

"'Twas   very   strange   and    sad,"    she    answered    me. 
"  Why     do     you     write     such     things  ?  —  or,     writing 

such, 

Leave   them   so   incomplete  ?      The   prisoned   youth, 
Thus    unreleased,    will   haunt   me   while    I    live. 
I    shudder   while    I   think   of  him." 

Then    I: 

"  The   poem    will   be    finished,   by-and-by 
For   this   is    history,  and   antedates 
No   fact   that    it   records.       Whether   this   youth 
Shall   live   entombed,  or   reach    the    blessed   air, 
Depends    upon    his   angel  ;    for   he    calls — 


132"  Kathrina 

I    hear   him   call,  and    call    again    her   name 
Kathrina!     O!    Kathrina!" 

Like   the   flash 

Of  the   hot   lightning,   the   significance 
Of  the    strange   vision    gleamed    upon    her   face 
In    a   bright,  throbbing   flame,  that   fell    full    soon 
To   ashen    paleness.      By   unconscious   will 
We    both    arose.      She   vainly   tried    to    speak, 
And   gazed    into   my   eyes    with    such    a   look 
Of  tender   questioning,  of  half-reproach, 
Of  struggling,  doubting,   hesitating  joy, 
As   few    men    ever   see,  and    none   but    once. 

Are    there    not    lofty    moments,   when    the    soul 

Leaps    to    the    front    of  being,   casting   off 

The   robes   and    clumsy   instruments    of  sense, 

And,   postured    in    its    immortality, 

Reveals    its   independence   of  the   clod 

In    which    it    dwells  ? — moments    in    which    the    earth 

And    all    material    things,   all    sights    and    sounds, 

All    signals,   ministries,  interpreters, 

Relapse    to    nothing,   and    the    interflow 

Of  thought    and    feeling,   love    and    life    go    on 


Kathrina  133 

Between    two    spirits,   raised    to    sympathy 
By  an    inspiring   passion,  as,  in    heaven, 
The   body   dust,   within   an    orb   outlived, 
It    shall    go   on    forever.' 

Moments   like   these — 

Nay,  these   in    very   truth — were   given    us    then. 
Who    shall   expound — ah !    who   but    God    alone, 
The   everlasting   mystery   of  love  ? 
She    spoke   not,  but    I    knew   that   she    was   mine. 
I    breathed    no    word,   but    she   was   well   assured 
That    I    was    wholly   hers. 

In    what   disguise 

Our   love   had    hid,  and    wrought    its    miracle  ; 
Behind    what   semblance   of  indifference, 
Or    play    of  courtesy,   it    spun    the    cords 
That    bound    our    hearts    in    one,   was    mystery 
Like    love   itself.      The   swift    intelligence 
Of  interchange    of  perfect    faith    and    troth, 
Of  gift   of  life   and    person,  of  the    thrill 
Of  triumph    in    my    soul,  and    gratitude 
In    hers,  without   a   gesture,  or   a   word, 
Was   like   the   converse   of  the   continents — 
Tracking   with    voiceless    flight   the   slender   wire 
That    underlay    the    throbbing   mystery 


134 


Kathrina. 


Between    our   souls,  and    made   our   heart-beats    one. 
I    opened    wide    my    arms,  and    she,  my    own, 
Sobbed   on    my   breast   with    such    excess    of  joy, 
In    such    embrace    of  passionate   tenderness, 
As   heaven    may   yield   again,  but    never   earth. 


Slow    in    the   golden    twilight,    toward    her   home, 
Her   hand    upon    my   arm,    we   loitered    on, 
Silent   at    first,   and    then    with   quiet    speech 


Kathrina  135 

Broaching   our    plans,    or   tracing   in    review 
The    history   of  our   springing   love,   when   she, 
Lifting   her  soft   blue   eyes    to    mine : 

"Dear   Paul! 

There   are    some    things,   and   some    I    will    not   name, 
That   make    me    sad,   e'en    in    this    height   of  joy. 
In   the   wild   lay   that   you    have   read    to-night, 
You    make   too    much    of  me.      No   heart   of  man, 
Though   loving   well   and   loving   worthily, 
Can    be   content    with   any   human    love. 
No   woman,   though    the   pride   and    paragon 
Of  all    her   sex,   can    take   the   place   of  God. 
No   angel   she  :    nor   is    she   quite   a   man 
In  power   and   courage, — gifts  which    charm  her  most, 
And   which,  possessing    most,  disrobe   her   charms, 
And    make   her   less   a   woman.      If  she   stand 
In    fair   equality    with    man — his    mate — 
Each    unto   each    the   rounded   complement 
Of  their   humanity,   it   is    enough  ; 
And    such    equality   must   ever   lie 
In    their   unequal    gifts.      This    thing,  at   least, 
Is    true   as    God :    she   is    not    more    than    he, 
And    sits    upon    no    throne.     To    be   adored 


1 36  Kafhruia 


By    man,    she    must    be    placed    upon    a    throne 
Built    by   his    hands,    and    sit    an    idol    there, 
Degraded    by    the    measure    of  the    flight 
Between    God's    thought  and    man's." 

Responding,    I  : 

'  Fix   your   own   place,    my  love ;    it    is   your   right. 
'Tis    well    to    have   a   theory,    and  sit 
In    the    centre    of  it,    mistress    of  its    law, 
And    subject   also ; — to   set    men    up    here 
And    woman    there,    in    a    fine    equipoise 
Of  gift    and    grace    and    import.       It    conveys 
To    nicely-working   minds    a  pleasant   sense 
Of  order,    like    a    well-appointed    room, 
Where   one   may   see,    in   various    stuffs   and    wares, 
Forethoughts    of  color    brought    to    harmony ; 
Stric"l    balancings    of    quantity    and    form ; 
Flowers    in    the    centre,    and,    beside    the    grate, 
A    rack   for    shovel  and  tongs.     But    minds    like  these 
(Your  pardon,    love !)    are    likely    to    arrange 
The   window-lights    to    save    the    furniture, 
And   spoil    the   pi6tures    on    the   wall.     And   you, 
In    the   adjustment    of  your    theory, 
Would    shut    the    liirht    from    her    whose    mind  informs 


KcUhrina  137 

Its    harmonies.     All    worship,    in    my    thought, 

Goes    hand    in    hand    with    love.     We    cannot    love, 

And    fail    to    worship    what    we    love.     While    you 

Worship   the    strength    and   courage    which    you    find 

In    him    who   has    your    heart,    he   bows    to   all 

Of  faith    and    sweetness   which    he   finds    in   you. 

If,    in    our   worship,    we    have    need    to   build 

Noblest    ideals,    taking    much    from    God 

With    which    to    make   them    perfect    in   our   eyes, 

Shall  God  mark  blame  ?     We  worship  Him  the  while, 

In    attributes    His    own,    or   attributes 

With   which  our    thought   invests    Him.     As  for  me — 

It   is    no    secret — I    am    what   you   call 

A   godless    man  ;   yet    what    is    worshipful, 

Or   seems    to   be  so,    that    with    all    my   heart 

I    worship ;    and    I    worship    while    I    love. 

\ 

You   deem    yourself  the   dwelling-place   of  God, 
And    keep   your   spirit    cleanly   for    His    feet. 
All    merit    you    abjure,    ascribing   all 
To    Him    who  dwells    within    you.      How    can    you 
Forbid    that    I    fall    down    and    worship    you, 
When    what    I    find    to    worship    is    not    yours, 
But    God's    alone  ?     I    know   the   ecstasy 

Enlarges,    strengthens,    purifies   my    soul, 

18 


1 38  Kathrina 

And     lesses    me   with    peace.       My   love,    my   life, 
You   are   my   all.       I    have   no   other   good, 
And,    in    this  moment    of   my   happiness, 
I    ask   no   other." 

Tears    were   in    her   eyes 

Her   clasped    hands   clinging   fondly   to   my   arm, 
While    under  droop    of  lashes   she   replied  : 
"  I    feel,   dear    Paul,    that  this   is    sophistry. 
It    does    not    touch    my   judgment    or   my    heart 
With    motive    of    conviclion.       In   what    way 
God   may   be   working   to   reclaim   your  will 
And    worship    to    Himself,    I    cannot    know. 
If  through    your    love    for    me,    or    mine   for    you, 
Then    as   his   grateful,    willing   instrument, 
I    yield    myself  to    Him.      But    this    is    true  : 
God   is    not   worshipped    in    his    attributes. 
I    do    not   love   your    attributes,    but    you. 
Your   attributes   all    meet    me   otherwheie. 
Blended   in    other    personalities, 
Nor    do    I    love,    nor   do    I    worship    them, 
Or   those   who   bear   them.      E'en   the   spotted    pard 
Will   dare   a   danger  which    will    make   you    pale, 
But    shall   his    courage    steal    my   heart   from   you  ? 


Kathrina  1 39 

You   cheat   your   conscience,    for   you    know    that    I 

May   1'ke   your   attributes,    yet   love    not   you  ; 

Nay,    worship   them    indeed,    despising  you. 

I    do   not    argue   thus    to   damp   your  joy, 

But   make    it   rational.       If  you    presume 

Perfection    in    me, — if  you   lavish  all 

The   largess    of  your   worship  and    your   love 

On    me,    imposing    on    my    head    a    crown 

Stolen   from    God's,    there    surely   waits    your   heart 

The    pang   of    disappointment.      There   will   come 

A    sad,    sad  time,    when,    in    your  famished   soul, 

The   cry   for   something   more,    and    more  divine, 

Will   rise,    nor    be    repressed." 

There    is    a   charm 

In    earnestness,    when   it   inspires    the   lips 
Of  one   we   love,   that   spoils  their   argument, 
And   yields    so    much    of  pleasure   and   of  pride, 
That    the   conviction    which    they   seek   evades 
Their   eager   fingers,    and    with    throbbing   wings 
Crows    from    its    covert. 

She   was   casuist. 
Cunning  and    clear  ;    and    I    was    proud    of  her  ; 


1 40  Ka  tli  rin  a 

And    though    I    knew    that    she    had    swept    away 
My   refuges   of  lies   like   chaff,    and   proved 
My    fair   words    fustian,    I    was   moved    to    mirth 
Over   the   solemn    ruin.       Had    it   been 
A   decent   thing   to    do,    I    should    have    laughed 
Full    in    her   face  ;    but    knowing    that    her   words 
Were   offspring  of  her   conscience   and    her   love, 
I    could   no   less    than   hold    respectfully 
Her   earnest  warning. 

"Well,    HI    take    the    risk," 

I    said.       "  While    you    shall    have    the    argument, 
I    will    have   you,    whom,    on    the    whole,    I    like 
Better   than    that.      And   you    shall    have   your   way, 
And    I    my   own,    in    common   liberty, 
With    things   like   these.      You,   doubtless,    are    to    me 
What    I    am    not    to   you.      We   are    unlike 
In    life  and  .circumstance — alike   alone 
In    this  :   that   better   than   all   else    on   earth 
We   love   each  .other.      This    is  basis    broad 
For   happiness,   or   broad    enough    for   rne. 
If  you   build   better,   you   are    fortunate, 
Ay,    fortunate  indeed ;    and    some    fine   day 
We'll   talk    about   it.       Let    us    have    to-night 


Kathrina  1 4 1 

Joy    in    our    new    possessions,    and    defer 
This    little   joust    of  wits    and  consciences 
To    more    convenient   season." 

We   had    reached 

The    cottage    door   at    this ;    and   there    her   aunt 
Awaited    our    return.       So,    hand    in    hand, 
Assuming    show    of  rustic    bashfulness, 
We    paused    before   her,   and   with   bows    profound 
Made    our    obeisance. 

"  Well  ? "    she   said   at   length  ; 
"  Well  ?— and    what    of  it  ?  " 

"  Are   you    not    surprised  ? " 
I    asked. 

"  Surprised,  indeed  !      Surprised   at   what  ? " 

"  At   what   you    see  :    and   this  !    and    this  ! "    I    said, 

Planting   a   kiss    upon   each   lovely   cheek 

Of    my    betrothed,    that     straightway     bloomed     with 

rose. 
"What!    are   you    blind,   my   aunt?" 


1 42  Kathriua 

"  You    silly    fools  ! 

I've   seen   it   from    the    first,"    she   answered    me. 
"  No   doubt   you    thought    that   you    were   very   deep, 
Very    mysterious — all   that   sort   of  thing. 
I've   watched   you,  and    if  you,  young   man,  had  been 
Aught   but   a   coward,  it    had   come   before, 
And   saved   some   sleep   o'nights    to    both    of  you. 
But   down    upon   your   knees,  for   benison 
Of  one   who   loves   you    both." 

We   knelt,  and    then 

She   kissed    us,   leaving   on   our   cheeks    the    tears 
That  sprang  to  brim  the  moment.     Her  shrewd  eyes, 
That    melted   in    the    sympathy   of  love, 
Would   not    meet   ours    again,  but   turned   away, 
And    sought   in   solitude   to   drain    themselves 
Of  their   strange   passion. 

God    forbid    that    I 

With   weak   and   sacrilegious   lips,  betray 
The   confidence   of  love  ;    or   tear   aside 
The   secrecy   behind   whose   snowy   folds 
Honor   and   virgin    modesty   retire 
For   holiest   communion !     For   the   fire 


Katkrina  143 

Which    burns   upon    that   altar   is  of  God. 

Its    tongues    of  flame,  throughout   all    time   and  space, 

Speak   but   one   language,    understood    by   all, 

But    sacred   ever   to   the   wedded    hearts 

That   listen    to    their   breathings. 

And   for   him, 

The   poet-pimp,  the   vile,  salacious    knave, 
Who   prostitutes    his   love,    his   verse,    himself, 
And    those    who   drink    the    poison  of    his    ink, 
By   revelations    of  the    mystery 
That   wraps    this    double   being,    revelling 
In    the    base   element    which   love   alone 
As    pure   as    God  can    wholly   purify, 
While   it   repeats   the    miracle   of  life 
Through    all    the   generations  ; — for   the   man 
Who   makes   a   lover   brother   of  the   beast, 
And    her  whom    he   dishonors    by   his   love, 
His   fitting   consort ;    who   adorns    the   filth 
He    digs    from    styes    with    wreaths    of .  poesy, 
And   with    his    smutted    hand    presents    the   dish 
For   the   world's   eating,    claiming   for  himself 
The   poet's   crown — ay,    winning   it    from    those 
Who   share    his    beastliness; — for   him,    I    say, 


144  Kathrina 

The    imprecations    of  all    womankind, 
With    man's    "  Amen  !  " 


In    the    deep    hours    of    night 
I    left    the   cottage,   brain    and    heart   o'ernlletl 
With    the   ethereal  vintage    I    had   quaffed. 
Disturbing    not    the   drowsy    ferryman, 
I    slipped    his    little    wherry    from    the    sand, 
And    in    the   star-sprent  river   lipped    the   oars 


That    pulled   me   homeward.      The   enchanting   tide 

Was    smooth   continuation    of  the    dream 

On  which   my   spirit,   holity  afloat. 

Had    glided    through    long    hours    of  happiness. 


Kathrina  145 

Earth,    by    the  strange,    delicious    ecstasy, 
Was    changed    to   paradise  ;    and    something   kin 
To   gratitude   arose   within    my   soul — 
A   fleeting   passion,   dying   all    too    soon, 
Lacking   the   root   which    faith    alone    can    feed. 

I    touched  the   shore  ;    but   when    my    hasting   feet 

Started    the   homeward    walk,    there   came   a   change. 

Down    from    the   quiet   stars    there   fell   a   voice, 

Heard    in  the   innermost,    that    troubled    me : 

"She    is  not    more    than   you:    why   worship   her? 

"  And    she  will   die :   what    will    remain    for   you  ? 

"  You   may  die   first,    indeed  :    then    what   resource  ? 

"  You    have    no   sympathy   with    her    in    things 

"  Ordained   within   her   conscience   and   her  ;life, 

"  The   things    supreme  :    can    there    be  marriage   thus  ? 

"  Is    e'en    such    bliss   as    may   be    possible 

"  Sure   to   be   yours  ?      Fate   has   a   thousand    hands 

"  To   dash   your   lifted   cup." 

With    thoughts   like   these, 
A    vague   uneasiness    pervaded    me, 
And    toned    the    triumph    of  my    passion,  till, 

Almost    in    anger,  I    exclaimed   at    last  : 

19 


1 46  Kathrina 

"  This    is    reaction.      I    have   flown    too   high 
"  Above   the   healthy   level,  and    I    feel 
"  The   press    of  denser   air.      The   equipoise 
"  Of  circumstance   and   feeling   will   be    reached 
"  All   in   good    time.      Rest   and   to-morrow's    sun 
"  Will    bring   the   remedy,  and,  with   the    mists, 
"  This    cloud   will   pass   away." 

Then    with    clenched   hands 
I    swore   I   would   be   happy, — that   my   soul 
Should    find   its   satisfaction    in    her   love  ; 
And    that,  if  ever   there   should    come   a   time 
Of  cold   satiety,  or   I    should   find 
Weakness  or  fault   where   I  had  thought  was  strength 
And   full   perfection,   I    would    e'en    endow 
Her   poverty   with    all   the    hoarded   wealth 
Of  my   imagination,   making   her 
The   woman   of  my   want,  in   plenitude 
Of  strength   and   loveliness. 

The   breezy   days 

Over   whose   waves    my   buoyant   life   careered, 
Rolled    to    October,   falling   on    its   beach 
With    bursts  of  mellow   music  ;    for,  in    that   month, 


Kathrina  \  4  7 

My    dear   betrothed,  deferring    to    the    stress 
Of  my   impatient    wish,  had    promised   me 
Her   hand    in   wedlock. 

Ere   the   happy   day 

Dawned  on  the  world,  the  world  was   draped  in  robes 
Meet   for   the    nuptials.       Baths    of  sunny   haze, 
Steeping    the   ripened   leaves    from    day   to   day, 
And   dainty   kisses   of  the   frost   at   night, 
Joined    in    the    subtile   alchemy    that    wrought 
Such    miracles    of  change,   that    myriad    trees 
Which    pranked    the    meads    and    clothed    the    forest 

glooms 

Bloomed    with    the   tints   of  Eden.       Had    the   earth 
Been  splashed  with  blood  of  grapes   from  every   clime, 
Tinted    from    topaz    to    dim    carbuncle, 
Or    orient    ruby,   it    would    not    have    been 
Drenched    with    such    waste    of  color.      All    the    hues 
The    rainbow    knows,  and    all    that    meet    the    eye 
In    flowers    of  field    and    garden,   joined    to    tell 
Each    tree's    close-folded    secret.      Side    by    side 
Rose   sister   maples,   some   in    amber   gold, 
Others    incarnadine    or    tipped    with    flame  ; 
And    oaks    that    for    a    hundred    years   had    stood, 


1 48  Katkrina 

And   flouted   one   another   through    the   storms — 
Boasting     their     might  —  proclaimed     their     pique     or 

pride 

In   dun,  or   dyes   of  Tyre.      The   sumach-leaves 
Blazed    with    such    scarlet    that    the    crimson    fruit 
Which     hung    among    their     flames    was    touched    to 

guise 

Of  dim   and   dying   embers  ;    while   the    hills 
That    met   the   sky   at   the   horizon's   rim — 
Dabbled   with   rose   among   the   evergreens, 
Or    stretching    off    in    sweeps    of    clouted    crimson- 
glowed 

As    if  the   archery   of  sunset   clouds, 
By   squads   and   fierce   battalions,   had    rained   down 
Its   barbed   and   feathered   fire,  and    left   it   fast 
To   advertise   th'   exploit. 

In    such    a   pomp 

Of  autumn    glory,   by   the   simplest    rites, 
Kathrina    gave    her    hand    to    me,   and    I 
Pledged    truth    and    life    to    her.      I    bore    her    home 
Through    shocks    of  maize,    revealing   half  their   gold, 
Past   gazing   harvesters    with    creaking   wains 
That    brimmed    with    fruitage — my   adored,    my    wife, 


\ 


Kathrina  1 49 

Fruition    of  my   hope — the   proudest   freight 
That   ever   passed   that    way  ! 

My   troops   of  friends, 

Grown    strangely   warm    and    strangely   numerous 
With    scent    of  novelty   and    pleasant    cheer, 
Assisted    me   to   place    upon    her   throne 
My   household    queen.      Right   royally   she   sat 
The   new-born  dignity.     Most   graciously 
She  spoke   and    smiled   among   the  silken    clouds 
That,   fold   on   perfumed   fold,    like   frankincense 
Enveloped    her,    through   half  the   festal    night, 
With    welcome   and   good   wishes.     I    was    proud  ; 
For   was   not    I    a   king    where    she    was    queen  ? 
And   queen    she   was — though    consort  in    my   home. 
Queen  regnant    in    the   realm    of  womanhood, 
By   right    of  every    charm. 

Into    her   place, 

As   mistress    of  all    home    economies, 
She   slid    without  a  jar,   as    if  the    Fates, 
By   concert    of  foreordinate   design, 
Had    fitted    her   for   it,    and    it   for   her, 
And,    having  joined    them    well,    were    satisfied 


150 


Katkrina 


Obedient    to    the    orbit    of  our    love, 
We    came    and    went,    revolving    round    our    home 
In    spheral    harmony — twin    stars    made    one, 
And    loyal    to    one    law. 

When    at    our  board, 
All   viands    lifted    by    her    hand    became 
Ambrosial  ;    and    her    light,    elastic    step 
From    room    to    room,    in    busy    household    cares, 
Timed    with    my    heart,    and    filled    me    with    a    sense 
Of  harmony    and    peace.      Days,    weeks,  and    months 
Lapsed   like   soft   measures,    rhyming   each    with   each, 
All    charged    with    thoughtful    ministries    to    me, 
And    not    to    me    alone  ;    for    I    was    proud 
To    know    that    she    was    counted    by    the    good 
As    a    good    power   among    them, — by    the    poor, 
As    angel    sent    of  God,    on    whom    they    called 
His.  blessing   down. 

She   held    her    separate   life 

Of  prayer   and    Christian    service,    without    show 
Of  sanctity,    without    obtrusiveness  ; 
And,   though    I    could    but    know    she    never   sought 
A    blessing    lor    herself,    forgetting   me 


Kathrina  1 5  i 

In    her    petition,    not    in    all    those    months 

Did   word   of  difference   betray    the   gulf 

Between   our   souls    and    lives.      She   had    her  plan  : 

I    guessed   it,    and   respefted  it.      She   felt 

That    if  her    life    were    not    an    argument 

To   move   me,  nothing   that   her   lips    might   say 

Could    win    me    to    her   wish.      Pride   would    repel 

What   it   could   not   refute,  and   pleasantry 

Parry   the    thrusts    that   love    could   not   resent 

A   whole   year   sped,  yet   not    a   line    of  verse 
Had   grown    beneath    my   pen.      When    I    essayed 
To   brace   my   powers    to   effort,  and    to    call 
Forth   from    their   camp   and   covert   the    bright   ranks 
Of  tuneful   numbers,  no   responsive   shout 
Answered   the   bugle-blast,  and   from    my   hand — 
Irresolute   and    nerveless    as    a   babe's — 
My   falchion   fell. 

She    rallied    me   on   this  ; 

But    I    had   naught    to    say,   save   this,  perhaps : 
That    she,   being   all    my   world,   had   left   no    room 
For   other   occupation    than    my   love. 
She   did    not   smile   at   this  :    it   was    no  jest, 


152  Kaihriua 

But    saddest    truth.       I    had    grown    enervate 
In    the    warm    atmosphere    which    I    had    breathed  ; 
And    this,   with    consciousness    that    in    her    soul — 
As   warm    with    love   as    mine — each   gentle    power 
Was    kindling    with    new    life    from    day   to    day, 
Growing    with    my    decline. 

Well,   in    good    time 

There    came    to    us    a   child,   the   miniature 
Of  her   on    whose    dear    breast    my    babyhood 
Was    nursed   and   cradled  ;   and    my   happy    heart, 
Charged    with   a   double   tenderness,   received 
And    blessed   the   precious    gift.      Another   fount 
Of  human   love   gurgled   to    meet    my   lips. 
Another   store   of  good,  as   rich    and    pure, 
In    its    own    kind,   as    that    from    which    I    drank, 
Was    thus    discovered    to    my    taste,  and    I 
Feasted    upon    its   fulness. 

With    the    gift 

That    brimmed    my    cup    of  joy,   there    came    a    grace 
To    her    who    bore    it    of  fresh    loveliness. 
If   I    had    loved    the    maiden    and    the    bride, 
The    mother,  through    whose   pain    my   heart   had   won 


Kalhriua 


153 


Its    new   possession,  fastened   to    my    heart 

With   a   new    sympathy.      Whatever   dross 

Our   months    of  intimacy    had   betrayed 

Within    her   character,  was    purged    away, 

And    she   was    left   pure   gold.      Nay,   I    should    say, 

Whatever   goodness    had    not   been    revealed 

Through    the    relations    of  her   heart    to    mine 

As   loving    maid   and    mistress,  found   the   light 

Through    her    maternity.      A   heavenly   change 

Passed    o'er   her   soul    and    o'er   her   pallid   face, 

As    if  the    unconscious   yearning   of  a   life 


154  Kathrina 

Had    found    full    satisfaction    in    the   birth 

Of  the   new   being.       Her   long   weariness 

\Yas    but   a   trance   of  peace   and   gratitude ; 

And   as    she   lay — her   babe    upon    her   breast, 

Her   eyelids   closed — I    could   but   feel    that    heaven, 

Should    it    hold    all    the   good   of  which    she   dreamed, 

Had   little   more    for   her. 

And    when   again 

She    moved   about    the   house,  in    ministry 
To   me   and   to   her   helpless    child,   I    knew 
That    I    had   tasted    every    precious   good 
That   woman    bears    to   man.      Ay,  more   than    this : 
That   not   one   man    in    thousands    had   received 
Such   largess   of  affeclion,  and    such   prize 
Of  womanhood,  as    I    had   found   in    her, 
And    made   my   own.      The   whole   enchanting   round 
Of  pure  domestic    commerce   had   been    mine. 
A    lover   blest,  a   husband    satisfied, 
A    father   crowned  !      Love   had    no   other   boon 
To    offer    me,   and    held    within    its    gift 
No    other   title. 

Thus,  within    the   space 

Of  two   swift   years,   I    traversed   the   domain 
Of  novelty,  and    learnejl   that    I    must   glean 


KatJirina  155 

The   garnered    fields    of  my   experience 

To   gratify  the   greed    that    still   possessed 

My   sateless    heart.      The    time   had    come    to    me — 

Which    I    had   half  foreseen — when,   by  my    will, 

My    interest    in    those    I    loved    should    live 

Predominant    in    all    my    life.       I    nursed 

With   jealous    care    my   passion    for    my    wife. 

I    raised    her   to   an    apotheosis 

In    my    imagination,    where    I    bowed 

And   paid   my   constant   homage.      I    was    still 

Her  fond   and   loyal   lover ;    but    my    heart, 

That   had   so   freely   drunk,    with   full    content, 

Had    seen    the    bottom    of   the   cup    she    held ; 

And    what    remained    but    tricks    to    eke    it    out, 

And    artifice    to    give    it    piquancy, 

And    sips    to    cool    my    tongue,    the    while    my    heart 

Was    hollow    with    its    thirst  ?     My    little    child 

Was   precious   to   my   soul   beyond   all   price ; 

Mother   and   babe   were   all  that   they   could  be 

To   any   heart   of  man  ;  and  yet — and  yet  ! 

Of  all   the   dull,   dead  weights    man    ever   bore, 
Sure,    none    can    wear    the    soul    with    discontent 
Like    consciousness    of  power    unused.     To    feel 


156  Kathrina 

That    one    has    gift    to    move    the    multitude, — 
To    act    upon    the    life    of  humankind 
By    force    of   will,    or    fire    of   eloquence, 
Or    voice    of  lofty    art,    and    yet,    to    feel 

No    stir   of  mighty    motive    in    the    soul 

• 
To    action   or   endeavor ;    to    behold 

The   fairest    prizes   of  this    fleeting   life 
Borne   off  by   patient   men    who,    day    by    day, 
By   bravest    toil   and    struggle,    reach    the   heights 
Of  great   achievement,    toiling,    struggling    thus 
With    a   strong  joy,    and   with    a   fine    contempt 
For   soft   and    selfish   passion  ;    to   see   this, 
Yet    cling   to    such   a   passion,   like    a   slave 
Who   hugs    his   chains    in    sluggish    impotence, 
Refusing    freedom    lest   he    lose   the    crust 
The   chain    of  bondage   warrants    him — ah  !    this 
Is    misery    indeed ! 

Such    misery 

Was    mine.     I  held    the   consciousness   of  power 
To  labor   even-headed    with    the    best 
Who  wrought  for  fame,  or  strove  to  make  themselves 
Felt   in    the   world's  great    life ;    and    yet,   I    felt 
No   lift   to    enterprise,   from    heaven    above 


Kathrina 


157 


Or    earth    beneath  ;    for    neither    God    nor    man 
Lived    in    my   love.     My    home    held    all    my    world  ; 


Yet   it    was   evident — I    felt,    I    knew — 

That    naught    could    fill    my    opening   want    but  toil ; 

And    there   were   times   when    I    had    hailed    with  joy 

The    curse   of  poverty,    compelling    me 

To   labor   for  my   bread,    and    for   the   bread 

Of   those    I    loved. 


1 5  8  Katlirina 

My    neighbors    all    around 

Were    happy    in   their   work.     The  plodding   hind 
Who    served   my   hand,   or  groomed    my  petted  horse, 
Whistled    about   his    work    with    merry    heart, 
And  filled    his    measure   of  content   with    toil. 
In   all  the   streets   and   all    the   busy  fields 
Men    were   astir,   and   doing    with    their   might 
What    their    hands    found    to    do.       They    drove    the 

plough, 

They  trafficked,   builded,   delved,  they  spun  and  wove, 
They  taught  and   preached,   they  hasted   up  and  down 
Each   on   his    little   errand,   and    their   eyes 
Were   full   of  eager   fire,   as    if  the   earth 
And   all   its   vast  concerns    were  on    their   hands. 
Their   homes  were   fresh   with    guerdon    every    night, 
And   ripe    with   impulse   to    new   industry 
At  each   new   dawn. 

I    saw   all   this,   but   knew 

That   they   were   not   like   me — were    most    unlike 
In   constitution   and   condition.     Thus, 
My  power  to   do,   and    do    the   single    thing 
My   power   was    shaped   to  do,  became,    instead 
Of  wings    to  bear   me,    weights    to  burden    me. 


Kathrina  \  59 

The    moiling   multitude    for   little   tasks 

Found   little   motives    plenty  ;    but   for   me, 

Whom   in    my   indolence    they   all   despised — 

Not   understanding   me — no   motive   rose 

To   lash   or   lead.     Even   the  love    I    dreamed 

Would   give   me   impulse   had    defrauded   me. 

Feeble   and   proud  ;   strong,   yet   emasculate  ; 

Centred   in   self,  and    still    despising   self; 

Goaded,   yet  held  ;    convinced,   but   never   moved ; 

Such   conflict  ofttimes    held   and   harried   me 

That   death   had   met   with  welcome.     If  I    read, 

I    read   to   kill  my   time.     No    interest 

In   the   great   thoughts   of  others    moved   my   soul, 

Because    I   had  no   object  :   useless   quite 

The   knowledge   and   the   culture    I   possessed  ; 

And    if  I    rode,    the   stale   monotony 

Of  the   familiar   landscapes    sickened    me. 

In    these    dull   years,    my    toddling   little   wean 
Grew   into    prattling   childhood,    and   I    gained 
Such   fresh   delight   from  her  as   kept  my   heart 
From   fatal  gloom  ;   but   more   and   more    I    shunned 
The  world   around   me,   more   and    more   drew   in 
The   circle  of  my   life,    until,   at   last, 


1 60  KatJiriiia 

My   home   became   my   hermitage.     I    knew 

The   dissolution    of  the   spell  would    come, 

And,    though    I    dreaded    it,   I    longed    to    greet 

The   crash   and    transformation.     If  my   pride 

Forbade   the    full    confession    to    my    wife 

That   time   had   verified    her   prophecy, 

It   failed  to    hold    the    truth   from    her.     She    read, 

With    a  true  woman's    insight,    all    my    heart  ; 

But,  with    a   woman's    sensitiveness,    shrank 

From    questions    which    might    seem    to    carry   blame  ; 

And   so,    for   years,    there   lay    between    our  souls 

The  bar   of  silence. 

One   sweet    summer   eve, 
After    my   lamb    was    folded,  and    before 
The  lamps    were   lighted,    as    I    sat    alone 
Within    my    room,  I    heard    reluctant    feet 
Seeking   my   door.     They    paused,    and    then    I    heard 

"  May    I    come    in  ?  " 

"  Ay,    you    may   always    come 
And   you    are   welcome   always,"    I    replied. 


Kathrina 


161 


The  room    was    dim,  but    I    could    see   her   face 
Was    pale,   and    her  long  lashes   wet.     "  Your    seat  "- 
I    said,    with   open    arms.    Upon    my    knee, 
One    hand    upon    my    shoulder,   she   sank   down 
As   if  the    heart    within   her   breast    were    lead, 
And    she   were   weary   with    its   weight.      "  My   wife, 
What    burden    now  ? "    I    asked    her   tenderly. 


1 62  Kathriiia 

She    fixed    her    swimming   eyes    on    mine,   and    said  : 
"  My    dear,    you    are    not    happy.      Years    have    gone 
Since   you    have    been    content.     I    bring    no    words 
Of  blame   against   you :   you   have   been ,  to    me 
A    comfort    and    a  joy.      Your    constancy 
Has    honored  me    as    few   of  all    my    sex 
Are    honored   by   your    own  ;    but    while    you   pine 
Wi*h    secret   pain,    I    am    so   wholly   yours 
That   I    must    pine    with    you.     I've    waited    long 
For   you    to    speak ;    and    now    I    come    to    you 
To    ask   you    this    one    question  :    is    there    aught 
Of  toil   or   sacrifice   within    my    power 
To   ease   your    heart,    or   give   you   liberty 
Beyond    the    round    to    which    you    hold    your   feet  ? 
Speak   freely,    frankly,   as    to   one    who    loves 
Her   husband   better   than   her   only   child, 
And   better   than    herself." 

I    drew    her    head 

Down    to    my    cheek,  and    said :    "  My    angel    wife ! 
Whatever    torment    or    disquietude 
I    may    have    suffered,    you    have    never    been 
Its    cause,    or   its    occasion.     You    are   all — 
You    have    been    all— that    womanhood    can   be 


Katlirina  163 


To    manhood's   want  ;    and    in    your    woman's   love 

And    woman's   pain,   I    have    found    every    good 

My     life     has      known     since     first     our      lives     were 

joined. 

You   knew   me    better   than    I    knew    myself; 
And    your   prophetic    words    have    haunted    me 
Like    thoughts    of  retribution  :    '  There   will  come 
1 A    sad,  sad  time,   wJien    in  your  famished  soul 
'  The  cry  for  something   more,  and  more  divine 
"  Will  rise,  nor  be   repressed. '     For    something    more 
My    spirit    clamors  :    nothing    more    divine 
I    ask    for." 

"  What  shall  be  this    '  something  more  '  ?  " 

"  Work,"    I    replied  ;    "  ay,    work,    but   never   here ; 
Work   among   men,   where    I    may   feel    the    touch 
Of  kindred   life ;    work   where   the    multitudes 
Are    surging  ;    work    where    brains    and    hands 
Are   struggling   for   the    prizes    of  the   world  ; 
Work    where    my    spirit,    driven    to    its    bent 
By   competitions   and   grand    rivalries, 
Shall    vindicate    its    own    pre-eminence, 
And    wring    from    a    reluctant    world    the    meed 


1 64  Kathrina 

Of  approbation    and    respecl    for    which 
It    yearns    with    awful    hunger  ;    work,    indeed, 
Which    shall   compel    the    homage   of    the   souls 
That    creep    around    me    here,    and    pity    you 
Because,    forsooth,    the    Fates    have    hobbled   you 
With    a   dull    drone.       I    know    how    sweet    the     love 
Of  two   fond    souls  ;    and    I    will    have    the   hearts 
Of  millions.       These    shall    satisfy    my    greed, 
And    round    the    measure    of  my    life  ;    and    these 
My   work   shall    win    me." 

At   these    childish    words 

She    raised    her   head,    and   with    a    sweet,    sad    smile 
Of  love    and    pity  blent,    made    her    response : 
"  Not    yet,    my    husband — if  your    wife    may    speak 
A    thought    that    crosses   yours — not    yet    have    you 
Found    the   great,  secret   of    content.      But   work 
May    help   you    toward    it,    and   in    any    case 
Is    better    far    than    idleness.       For    this, 
You    ask   of    me    to    sacrifice    this    home 
And    all    the    truest    friends    my    life    has    gained. 
I    do    it    from    this    moment  ;    glad    to    prove, 
At   any   tender    cost,    my    love    for    you, 
And    faith    in   your    endeavor.       I    will    go 


Kathrina  165 

To    any    spot    of  earth    where    you    may    lead, 
And   go    rejoicing.       Let    us    go   at    once ! " 

"  I    burn    my    ships    behind    me,"    I    replied. 

"  Measure    the   cost :    be    sure   no   secret    hope 

Of  late    return    be    found    among    the    flames ; 

For,   if  I   go,    I    leave   no    single   thread, 

Save    that   which    binds    me   to   my   mother's    grave, 

To    draw    me    back." 

"  My   love    shall    be    the    torch 
To    light    the   fire,"    she   answered. 

Then    we    rose, 

And,    with    a   kiss,    marked    a   full    period 
To   love's    excess,    and    with    a   sweet   embrace 
Wrote    the    initial    of  a   stronger   life. 


A     REFLECTION 


OH  !    not   by   bread   alone    is    manhood    nourished 

To    its   supreme    estate  ! 
By   every   word   of  God    have   lived    and   flourished 

The   good    men    and    the    great. 
Ay,    not   by   bread    alone  ! 

"Oh!  not  by  bread  alone!"  the   sweet  rose,  breathing 

In    throbs   of  perfume,    speaks ; 
"  But   myriad   hands,   in    earth    and   air,  are    wreathing 

The   blushes    for   my   cheeks. 
Ay,    not   by   bread    alone ! " 


Kathriua  167 

"  Oh !    not    by    bread    alone ! "    proclaims    in    thunder 

The    old    oak    from    his    crest ; 
"  But    suns    and    storms    upon    me,  and    deep    under, 

The    rocks    in    which    I    rest. 
Ay,   not   by    bread    alone ! " 

"  Oh  !    not   by  bread   alone !  "     The  truth   flies  singing 

In    voices    of  the    birds ; 
And    from    a    thousand    pastured    hills    is    ringing 

The  answer   of  the    herds  : 
"  Ay,   not    by   bread    alone  ! " 

Oh !    not  by  bread   alone !    for  life   and    being 

Are    finely  complex   all, 
And    increment,   with    element    agreeing, 

Must    feed    them,    or   they    fall. 
Ay,   not   by   bread    alone ! 

Oh  !    not  by    love   alone,    though    strongest,    purest, 

That    ever   swayed    the   heart ; 
For    strongest    passion    evermore    the    surest 

Defrauds    each    manly    part. 
Ay,    not    by   love   alone ! 


1 68  Kathrina 

Oh  !    not   by   love   alone    is   power   engendered. 

Until    within    the    soul 
The    gift    of  every   motive   has   been    rendered, 

It    is    not    strong    and    whole. 
Ay,    not    by    love   alone ! 

Oh!    not   by   love   alone    is    manhood    nourished 

To   its  supreme   estate : 
By    every   word    of  God   have   lived    and    flourished 

The   good    men   and    the   great. 
Ay,    not    by   love   alone  ! 


KATHRIN  A 


PART    III 


LABOR 


PART     III 


LABOR 

TEX    years   of  love ! — a   sleep,  a   pleasant   dream 
That    passed    its    culmen    in    the   early    half, 
Concluding   in    confusion — a   wild    scene 
Of  bargains,  auctions,  partings,  and   what   not  ? 
And    an    awaking ! 

I    was    in    Broadway, 
A    unit    in    a    million.       Like   a   bath 
In    ocean    surf,    blown    in    from    farthest   seas 
Under    the    August    ardors,    the    grand    rush 
Of  crested   life   assailed   me   with    its    waves, 
And    cooled    me    while    it    fired.     With    sturdy   joy 


1 7  2  Kathrina 

I    sought    its   broadest    billows,  and    resigned 
My   spirit   to    their   surge   and    sway  ;    or   stood 
In    sheltered    coves,   reached    only    by    the    spume 
And   crepitant    bubbles   of  the   yesty    floods, 
Drinking   the   roar,   the   sheen,  the    restlessness, 
As    inspiration,  both    of  sense    and    soul. 

I    saw   the   waves   of  life   roll    up   the   steps 

Of  great   cathedrals    and    retire  ;    and    break 

In    charioted    grandeur   at    the   feet 

Of  marble   palaces,    and    toss    their   spray 

Of  feathered   beauty   through    the   open   doors, 

To   pile   the    restless   foam    within  ;    and    burst 

On    crowded  caravansaries,    to   fall 

In   quick   return  ;    and    in    dark    currents    glide 

Through    sinuous   alleys    and    the   grimy   loops 

Of  reeking   cellars ;    and   with    softest   plash 

Assail    the   gilded    shrines    of  opulence, 

And    slide   in    musical    relapse   away. 

With    senses    dazed    and   stunned,    and    soul    o'ernlled 
With    chaos    of  new    thoughts,    I    turned    away, 
And    sought   my    city    home.     There   all   was   calm, 
With    wife   and    daughter   waiting   my   return, 


Kathrina  1 7  3 

And   eager   with   their   welcome.     That   was   life  ! — 
An    interest    in    the    great    world    of   life, 
A    place   for   toil    within    a    world  of  toil, 
And   love    for   its    reward.     "  Amen !  "    I    said, 
"  And    twice   amen  !    I  've    found   my   life   at   last, 
And   we    will    all    be   happy." 

Day   by   day— 

The    while    I    sought    adjustment    to   the   life 
Which    I    had    chosen,    and   with   careful   thought 
Gathered    to    hand    the   fair   material 
Elect   by    Fancy    for   the    organism 
Over   whose    germ    she    brooded— I    went   out, 
To    bathe   again    upon    the    shore   of  life 
My   long-enfeebled    nature. 

Every   day 

I    met    some   face    I    knew.     My   college   friends 
Came   up   in    strange   disguises.       Here   was    one, 
With    a   white    neck-cloth    and   a    saintly   face, 
Who    had   been    rusticated   and    disgraced 
For   lawlessness.       Now    he    administered 
A    charge   which    proved    that   he   had   been    at   work, 
And    made    himself  a   man.      And    there   was   one — 


1 74  Kathrina 

A   lumpy   sort   of  boy,    as    memory 
Recalled    him    to   me— grown    to    portliness 
And   splendid   spectacles.       He   drove   a   chaise, 
And    practised    surgery, — was    on    his    way 
To   meet    a   class   of  youth,   who    sought   to    be 
Great  surgeons   like   himself,    and    took    full    notes 
Of  all    his    stolen   wisdom.      By   his    watch— 
A   gold   repeater,   with    a   mighty   chain- 
He   gave   me  just    five    minutes  ;    then    rolled    off— 


Kathrina  175 


Pretension    upon    wheels.       Another   grasped 

My    hand    as    if   I    were   his    bosom    friend, 

Just    in    from    a   long   voyage.       He   was   one 

Who   stole  my  wood    in    college,    and   received 

With      grace      the      kick     I      gave      him.        He     had 

grown 

To    be    the    tail    of  a   portentous    firm 
Of   city    lawyers  ;    managed,    as    he    said, 
The    matter    of  collections ;    and  had   made 
In    his    small    way — to    use   his    modest   phrase, 
Truthful    as    modest — quite   a  pretty   plum. 
He    was    o'erjoyed    to    see    me    in    the   town  : 
Hoped    I    would    call    upon    him    at    his    den : 
If   I    had   any    business    in    his    line, 
Would    do    it    for    me    promptly ;    as    for   price, 
No    need    to    talk    of  that    between    two   friends ! 

But    these,    and    all — the   meanest   and   the   best — 

Were   hard    at   work.       They   always   questioned    me, 

Before    we    parted,    touching   my   pursuits  ; 

And    though    they   questioned    kindly,    I    grew   sore 

Under   the    repetition,   and  ashamed 

To    iterate    my   answer,    till    I    burned 

To   do    some    work   so   lifted   into   fame 


1 76  Katkriiict 

That   shame    should    be    to    him   whose    ignorance 
Compelled    a   question. 

Simplest   foresters 

Have   learned    the   trick   of  woodland   broods,  that  fly 
In    radiant   divergence   from    the   flash 
Of  death   and   danger,   and,    when    all    is    still, 
Steal   back  to   where   their   fellows    bit   the   dust 
For   rendezvous.      And    thus    society 
Follows    the   brutal    instinct.      When    the   friends 
Who   from    her   father's    ruin   fled   amain 
Found    out   my    wife,    and    learned    that   it   was    safe 
To   gather   back   to   the   old    feeding-ground, 
They   came.       Her  old    home   had    become   my   own, 
And    they   were   all   delighted.       It   was   sweet 
To   have   her   back   again  ;    and   it   was    sad 
To   know   that   those   who   once   were  happy   there, 
Dispensing   happiness,   could    come   no    more. 

It    had   its   modicum    of  earnestness, — 

This   talk   of  theirs — and    she   received    it   all 

With    hearty   courtesy,   and   yielded   it 

The   unction    of  her   charity,    so   far 

That    it    was    smooth    and    redolent   to    her. 


Katlirina  i  7  j 

The   difference — the   world-wide   difference — 
Between   my   wife   and    them    was    obvious  ; 
But   she  was   generous   through   nature's   gift, 
I   fancied — could   not   well   be   otherwise  ; 
Although    their   fawning   filled    me    with    disgust. 
Oh  !    fool   and    blind !    not    to    perceive    the    Christ 
That   shone   and    spoke   in    her ! 

The    hour   approached — 

The   pre-determined    time — when    I    should    close 
My   study   door,    and    wrap    my   kindling   brain 
In   the   poetic   dream    which,   day    by    day, 
Was   gathering   consistence   in    my   brain. 
The    quick   creative    instinct    in    me   plumed 
Its   pinions   for   the   flight,    and    I    could   feel 
The   influx   of  fresh   power ;    but    whence    it    came 
I    did   not   question  ;    though    it    fired   my   heart 
With   the   assurance   of  success. 

I    told 

My   dear   companion    of  my   hopeful   plans 
For   winning   fame,   and    making   for   myself 
A   lofty   place  ;    but    I    could   not   inspire 

Her   heart    with    my   ambition,   or   win   o'er 

23 


178  Kathrina 

Her  judgment    to   my   motive.      She   adhered 

To   her   old   theory,   and   gave    no   room 

To   any   motive   it   did   not   embrace. 

We   argued    much,    but   always   argued   wide, 

And   ended    where   we   started.      Postulates 

On    which    we    stood    in    perfect    harmony 

Were   points    of  separation,    out   from    which 

We    struck   divergently,    till    sympathy, 

That   only   lives    by   rhythm    of  thoughts    and    hearts, 

Lay   dead   between   us. 

"  Man   loves    praise,"    I    said. 
"  It   is   an   appetence   which    He   who   made 
The   human    soul,    made   to   be   satisfied. 
It   is   a   tree    He   planted.      If   it  grow 
On    that   which   feeds   it,    and   become   at   last 
Thrifty   and   fruitful,    it   is   still    His   own, 
With   usury.      And   if,    in    His   intent, 
This   passion   have   no   place   among   the   powers 
Of  active   life,    why    is    it   mighty   there 
From    youngest    childhood  ?      Pray   you   what   is   fame 
But   concrete    praise  ? — the    universal   voice 
Which    bears   from    every   quarter   of  the   earth 
Its   homage   to   a   name,   that   grows   thereby 


Kathrina  179 

To    be   its  own    immortal    monument, 

Outlasting   all    the    marble   and  the   bronze 

Which    cunning   fingers,   since    the   world   began, 

Have  shaped    or  stamped   with    story  ?     What  is    fame 

But   aggregate   of  praise  ?      And  if  it    be 

Legitimate   to   win,    for   sake    of  praise, 

The   praise    of  one,    why   not    of  multitudes  ? " 

"  Ay,"    she  replied ;    "  'tis    true    that   men   love   praise  ; 

And   it   is    true    that    He   who    made   the   soul 

Planted    therein    the    love    of  praise,    to   be 

A   motive   in    its    life — all    true,    so   far ; 

And    so    far   we   agree.       But   motives   all 

Have   their   appropriate    sphere   and    sway,   like    men 

Who  bear  them    in    their  breasts.     The  love  of  praise 

Fills   life   with    fine    amenities.      Not   all 

Who   live   have    pleasant    tempers,   and   not   all 

The   gift   of  gracious    manners,   or   the   love 

Of  nobler   motive,    higher   meed    than    praise. 

The   world    is    full    of  bears,   who    smooth    their   hair, 

And    glove   their   paws,    and    put  on    manly   airs, 

And   hold   our  honey   sacred,   and   our   lives 

Our   own,   because   they   hunger   for   our   praise. 

'Tis    a   fine    thing   for   bears — this   love   of  praise — 


1 80  Kathrina 

And   those   who   deal    with  them  ;    and   a   good    thing 

For   children,   and   for   parents,    teachers — all 

Who   have   them    in    their   keeping.       It   may   hold 

A   little   mind    to   rectitude   until 

It   grow,   and   grow   ashamed    to   yield   itself 

To   such   a   petty   motive.      Children   all 

Like   sugar,    and   it   may   admit   of  doubt 

Whether   our   praise   or   sugar   sweetens    more 

Their   petulant   sub-acids ;    but   a   man 

Would   choke   in    swallowing   the    compliment 

Which   we   should   pay   him   were   we    but    to    say, 

'  Go   to !    Do   some   great   deed,    and   you    shall    have 

Your   pay   in    sugar : — maple,    mind   you,    now, 

So   you   shall   do   it   featly.' " 

"  Very   good  !  " 

I    answered,    "  very   good,    indeed !    if  we 
Engage   in   talk   for   sport ;    but   argument 
On   themes   like  these   must   have   the    element 
Of  candor.       Highest   truth,    in    certain    lights, 
May   be   ridiculous,   and   yet    be    truth. 
Women   are  angels :    just   a   little   weak 
And  just   a   little    wicked,    it    may   be, 
Yet   still   the   sweetest   beings    in    the   world  ; 


Kathrina  1 8 1 

But   when    one   stands    with    apprehensive   gasp 
At   verge    of  sternutation,    or   leaps   off, 
Projecting   all   her   being   in   a   sneeze, 
Or   snores   with   lips    wide-parted,    or   essays 
The   'double-quick,'    we   turn   our   eyes   away 
In   sadness,   that   a   creature    so   divine 
Can   be   so    shockingly   ridiculous  ; 
Yet   who   shall   say  she 's    not   an   angel   still  ? 
Now   you   present   to   me   the   meanest   face 
Of  a   most    noble    truth.      I    laugh   with    you 
Over   its    sorry   semblance ;    but   the   truth 
Is    still   divine,    and   claims    our   reverence. 
The   great    King    Solomon — and   you   believe 
In    Solomon — has   said   that   a   good   name 
Is    more   to   be   desired    than   much   fine   gold. 
If  a   good    name    be   matter   of  desire 
Beyond   all   wealth — and   you   will   pardon    me 
For   holding   to   the   record— it   may    stand 
As    a   grand    motive   in    the   life   of  man 
To   grand    endeavor.      I    have   yet   to   learn 
That    Solomon    addressed    his    words    to   bears, 
Or   little   children.       I    am    forced   to    think 
That   you   and    I,    and   all   who    read    his   words, 
Are    those    for   whom    he   wrote." 


1 82  -  Kalhrina 

Rejoining    she 

"  A   good    may   be   the    subject   of  desire, 
And   not   be   motive    to   achievement.      Life, 
If  I    may    speak   the   riddle,    is   a   scheme 
Of  indirections.      My   own   happiness 
Is   something   to   desire ;    and   yet,    I    know 
That   I    must   win   it   by   forgetting   it 
In    ministry   to   others.       If   I    make 
My   happiness   the   motive   of  my   work, 
I    spoil   it  by   the   taint   of  selfishness. 
But   are   you   sure    that   you    do   not   presume 
Somewhat   too   much,    in   claiming   the   desire 
For   a   good    name   as    motive   of  your   life  ? 
Greatness,    not   goodness,    is   the   end   you    seek 
If  I    mistake   you   not ;    and   these   are   held, 
In    the   world's    thought,   as   two,    and    most   distinct. 
King  Solomon    was    wise,    but   wiser    He 
Who   said   to   those   that   loved   and   followed    Him, 
'  Who   would   be   great   among   you,   let   him    serve.' 
The   greatest   men — and   artists    should   be   such, 
For   they  are   God's    nobility   and   man's — 
Should   work  from    greatest   motives.      Selfishness 
Is   never   great,   and   moves   to   no   great   deeds. 
To   honor   God,    to   benefit    mankind, 


Kathrina  \  8  q 

u 

To   serve    with   lofty   gifts    the   lowly    needs 
Or   the   poor   race   for   which    the    God-man    died, 
And   do   it   all   for   love — oh  !    this    is   great  ! 
And    he   who   does   this   will   achieve   a   name 
Not   only   great,    but  good." 

"  Not   in  this   world, 

I    answered   her.      "  I    know   too   much    of  it. 
The   world   is    selfish ;    and   it   never    gives 
Due   credit   to   a   motive   which   assumes 
To   be   above   its    own.      If  a   man    write, 
It   takes    for   granted   that   he   writes    for   fame, 
And  judges    him    accordingly.       It   holds 
Of  no   account   all   other   aims   and   ends  ;    • 
And   visits   with   contempt   the   man .  who   bears 
A   mission    to   his    kind.      The   critic    pens 
That    twiddle   with   his    work,   or   play   with    it 
As   cats   with    mice,   are   not   remarkable 
For   gentle   instincts ;    and   my    name    must   live 
By   pens   like   these.      I    choose   to    take    the   world 
Just    as    I    find   it,    and    I    pitch    my    tune 
To   the   world's   key,    that   it  may   sing   my    tune, 
And    sing   for   me.      Ay,    and    I    take    myself 
Just   as   I    find   myself.      I    do   not   love 


1 84  Kathrina 

The    human    race   enough   to   work   for 

Having   no    motive   of  philanthropy, 

I'll   make   pretence   to    none.      The   love   of  praise 

I    count   legitimate   and   laudable. 

'Tis    not   the   noblest    motive   in   the   world, 

But   it   is   good ;    and   it   has    won    more   fames 

Than   any   other.      Surely,   my   good   wife, 

You   would   not   shut   me   from    it,   and   deprive 

My   power   of  its   sole   impulse." 

"  No  ;    oh  !    no," 

She   answered   quickly.      "  I    am   only   sad 
That   it   should   be   the   captain   of  your   host. 
All   creatures   of  the   brain   are   the   result 
Of  many   motives   and   of  many   powers. 
All   life   is    such,    indeed.      The   power   that   leads — 
The   motive   dominant — this   stamps   the   world 
With   its   own   likeness.      Throughout   all   the   world 
Are   careful   souls,    with    careful   consciences, 
That   pierce    themselves    with    questionings   and   fears 
Because   that,   with   the   motives   which   are   good, 
And   which   alone   they   seek,   a   hundred    come 
They   do   not   seek,   and   aye   sophisticate 
Their   finest    aclion.      They   are   wrong   in    this 


Kathrina  185 

All   motives   bowing   to   one   leadership, 

And   aiding    its    emprise,    are   one   with   it — 

The   same    in    trend,    the   same   in   terminus. 

All    the   low   motives    that   obey    the   law, 

And   aid    the   work,    of  one   above   them   all, 

Do   holy   service,   and   fulfil   the   end 

For   which    they  were   designed.     The   love   of  praise 

Is  not   the   lowest   motive   which   can   move 

The   human   soul.      Nay,   it    may   do   good   work 

As   a   subordinate,  and   leave   no   soil 

On   whitest   fabric,   at   whose   selvage   shines 

The   Master's   broidered   signature.      Although 

You   write   for   fame,    think   not   you    will   escape 

The   press    of  other   motives.      You   love   me  ; 

You   love   your  child  ;    you  love   your   pleasant  home  ; 

You   love   the   memory   of  one   long   dead. 

These,  joined   with   all   those   qualities   of  heart 

Which   make   you   dear   to   me,   will   throng   around 

The   leader   you   appoint,    and   come   and   go 

Under   his   banner ;    and   the   work   of  God 

Will   thrive  through   these,   the   while   your  own   goes 

on. 
God   will    not   be   defrauded,    nor   yet   man  ; 

And   you,   who   like   the    Pharisees    make   prayer 

24 


1 86  Kathrina 

At   corners   of  the   streets,    for   praise   of  men, 
Will    have   reward   you   seek." 

"  Ay,   verily  !  " 

Responded    I    with    laughter.      " Verily! 
Though    not   a   saint,    I'll   do   a   saintly  work 
For   my   own   profit,   and    in    spite   of  all 
The   selfishness   that   moves    me.      Better,    this, 
Than    I    suspe6led.      My   sweet   casuist — 
My   gentle,   learned,   lovely   casuist — 
I    thank   you  ;   and    I'll    pay   you    more    than  thanks. 
I'll   promise   that   when    these   fine   motives  come, 
And  volunteer   their   service,   they   shall    find 
Welcome   and   entertainment,   and   a   place 
Within    the   rank   and    file,    with   privilege 
Of  quick   promotion,    so   they   show   themselves 
Motives   of  mettle." 

This    the   type   of  talk 

That   passed   between    us.       I    was    not   a   fool 
To   count   her   wisdom    worthless  ;    nor   a    God, 
To   work   regeneration    in    myself. 
That   something   which    I    longed   for,    to    fill   up 
The   measure   of  my   good,   was   human   praise  ; 


Kathrina  1 8  7 

Yet    I    could   see   that   she   was   wholly   right, 

And    that    she   held   within    herself  resource 

Of  satisfaction    better   than    my   own. 

But    I    was   quite   content — content    to   know 

I    trod    the   average   altitude   of  those 

Within   the   paths    of  art,    and    had   no   aims 

To   be   misconstrued    or   misunderstood 

By    Pride   and    Selfishness — that   these,   in    truth, 

Expected    of  me   what    I    had   to   give. 

Strange,    how   a   man    may   carry   in    his    heart, 

From   year   to   year — through   all   his   life,   indeed — 

A    truth,   or   a    conviction,    which    shall    be 

No    more   a   part   of  it,    and    no    more   worth 

Than    to    his    flask   the   cork   that   slips    within  ! 

Of  this   he   learns   by   sourness   of  his   wine, 

Or   muddle   of  its    color  ;    by   the   bits 

That   vex   his   lips   while   drinking  ;    but    he   feels 

No    impulse   in    his    hand    to   draw   it   forth, 

And    bid    it    crown    and   keep   the   draught   it   spoils. 

I    write   this,    here,    not   for   its    relevance 
To    this   one   passage   of  my    story,   but 
Because   there   slipped   into   my   consciousness 


1 88  Kathri-ua 

Just   at    this  juncture,    and   would    not   depart, 
A   truth    I    carried    there   for   many   years, 
Each    minute    seeing,    feeling,    tasting   it, 
Yet   never   touching   it   with   an   attempt 
To   draw   it   forth,    and   put   it  to   its    place. 

One   evening,   when    our   usual   theme   was   up, 
I    asked   my   wife   in   playful   earnestness 
How   she    became   so    wise.      "  You    talk,"    I    said, 
"  Like   one   who   has    survived    a   thousand   years, 
And   drunk   the   wisdom    of  a   thousand   lives." 

"  Who   lacketh    wisdom,    let   him    ask   of  God, 
Who   giveth   freely   and   upbraideth    not," 
Was   her   reply. 

"  I    never   ask   of  God," 

I    said.      "  So    while   you   take   at   second    hand 
His    breathings    to   the    artist,    I    will   take 
At    second    hand   the   wisdom    that    He   gives 
To   you,   his   teacher." 

"  Do   you   never   pray  ? ' 


Kathrina  \  89 

"  Never,"    I    answered   her.      "  I    cannot   pray  : 
You   know   the   reason.      Never   since   the   day 
God   shut    His    heart   against    my   mother's   prayer 
Have    I    raised   one   petition,    or   been    moved 
To   reverence." 

Her   long,   dark   lashes   fell, 

And   from    her  eyes  there  dropped   two   precious  tears 
That   bathed    her   folded    hands.       She   pitied   me, 
With    tenderness   beyond    the    reach   of  words. 
I    did    not   seek   her   pity.      I    was   proud, 
And    asked   her   if  she   blamed    me. 

"  No,"    she   said  ; 

"  I    have    no   right   to   blame   you,   and    no    wish. 
I    marvel   only   that   a   man   like   you 
Can   hold   so   long   the   errors   of  a   boy. 
I've   looked — with   how  much   longing,  words    of  mine 
Can    never   tell — for   reason    to   restore 
That   priceless    thing   which   passion    stole   from   you, 
And    looked   in    vain." 

Though   piqued  by   the   reproach 
Her   words   conveyed    (unwittingly,    I    knew), 


1 90  Kathrina 

I    wished    to    learn   where,    in    her   theory 

Of  human    life,    ray   case   had   found    a   place  ; 

So,   bidding   pride   aback,    I    questioned    her. 

"You   are   so   wise   in   other    things,"    I    said, 

"  And   read   so  well    God's    dealings    with    His    own, 

Perhaps   you   can    explain    this   mystery 

That   clouds    my   life." 

"  I    know    that    God   is   good," 
She   answered,    "and,    although    my    reason    fail 
To   explicate   the   mystery    that   wraps 
His   providence,    it   does    not   shake    my   faith. 
But   this   sad   case   of  yours    has    seemed    so   plain, 
That    Reason    well    may    spare    the    staff  of  Faith 
To   climb   to   its   conclusions.       You    are   loved, 
My   husband  :    can   you    tell   your    wife   for   what  ? " 

"  Oh  !    modesty     my   dear  ;    hem  !    modesty  ! 
Spare   me   these   blushes  !     I    have    not   at  hand 
The   printed    catalogue   of  qualities 
Which    give   you    inspiration,    and   decline 
The   personal   rehearsal." 

"  You   mistake," 


Kathrina  1 9 1 

She   answered,    smiling.      "  Not    for   modesty  ; 

And   as   for   blushes,    they're    not   patent   yet. 

But   frankly,    soberly,    I    ask   you    this : 

Have   you   a   quality   of  heart   or   brain 

Which   makes   you   lovable,   and    in    my    eyes 

A    man    to   be   admired,   that   was    not    born 

Quick   in    your   blood  ?    Pray,    have   you   anything 

Which   you    do   not   inherit  ?      Who   to    me 

Furnished    my   husband  ?      By   what    happy   law 

Was   all    that   was    the  finest,    noblest,    best 

In    those   who   gave   you   life,    bestowed    on   you 

You   have   your   father's    form,    your   father's    brain  : 

You   have   your   mother's   eyes,    your   mother's    heart. 

Those   twain   produced   a   man   for   me   to   love 

Out   of  themselves.      I    am    obliged    to   them 

For   the    most    precious   good    the   round    earth    holds, 

Transmitted   by   a   law   that   slew   them    both. 

It   was    not   sin,   or   shame,   for   them    to   die 

Just   as   they   died.      They  passed    with    whiter   hands 

Up   to   The   Throne  than   he   who   wantonly 

Murders   a   sparrow.      When    your   mother   prayed, 

She   prayed   for   the   suspension   of  the   law 

By   which    from    Eve,    the    mother   of  the   race, 

She  had   received    the   grace   and   loveliness 


1 9  2  KatJirina 

Which    made   her   precious    to   your   heart — the   law 

By   which   alone   she   could   convey   these   gifts 

To   others   of  her   blood.      Your   daughter's    face 

Is    beautiful,    her   soul    is   pure   and   sweet, 

By   largess   of  this   law.      Could    God    subvert, 

To   meet    her   wish,  though   shaped   in   agony, 

The   law   which,    since   the   life   of  man    began 

In   life   of  God,   has   kept   the   channel    clear 

For   His   own   blood,   that   it    might   bless    the   last 

Of  all   the   generations   as   the   first  ? 

What   could    He   more   than   give   her   liberty — 

When   reason   lay   in    torture   or   in    wreck, 

And   life   was   death — to   part   with    stainless    hand 

The   tie   that   held   her   from    His   loving   breast.3" 

If  God   himself  had   dropped  her  words  from    heaven, 

They   had   not   reached   with    surer   plummet-plunge 

The   depths   of  my   conviction.       I    was    dumb  ; 

I    opened   not   my   mouth ;    but   left  her   side, 

And   sought   the   crowded    street.       I    felt    that   all 

Delusions,    subterfuges,    self-deceits, 

By   which    my   soul   had   shut   itself  from    God, 

Were   stripped   away,   and   that   no   barrier 

Was   interposed   between    us   which   was    not 


Katliriua  193 

My   own    hand's    building.       Never,    nevermore, 
Could    I    hold    God    in    blame,    or    deem    myself 
A    guiltless,    injured    creature.       I    could    see 
That    I    was    hard,   implacable,    unjust  ; 
And    that    by    force    of  wilful    choice    I    held 
Myself  from    God  ;    for    no    impulsion    came 
To    seek    His    face    and    favor.       Nay,    I    feared 
And   fought    such    incidence,   as   enemy 
Of  all    my    plans. 

So   it   became   thenceforth 
A    problem    with    me   how   to    separate 
My    new    conviction    from    my    life — to    hold 
A    revolutionizing    truth    within, 
And   hold    it   yet    so    loosely,    it   should    be 
Like  a   dumb  alien    in    a   mural    town — 
No    guest,    but    an    intruder,    who    might    bide, 
By   law   or   grace,    but    win    no   domicile 
And    hold    no   power. 

When    I    returned,    that    night, 

My   course   was    chosen,    with    such    sense   of  guilt 
I    blushed    before   the    calm,    inquiring    eyes 
That   met    me   at    mv    threshold  ;    but    the    theme 


1 94  Kathrina 

Was   dropped  just    there.      My   gentle    Mentor   read 
The    secret   of  the   struggle   and   the   sin, 
And    left   me   to   myself. 

At   the   set   time, 

I    entered   on    my   task.      The  discipline 
Of  early   years    told   feebly   on    my   work, 
For   dissipation   and   disuse   of  power 
Had   brought   me   back    to    infancy   again. 
My   will   was    weak,    my   patience   was   at   fault, 
And    in    my   fretful   helplessness    I   stormed 
And    sighed   by   turns  ;    yet   still    I    held    in   force 
Determination,    as   reserve   of  will  ; 
And   when    I    flinched   or   faltered,    always    fell 
Back   upon    that,   and    saved    my   powers   from   rout. 
Casting,    recasting,    till    I    found    the   germ 
Of  my   conception   putting   forth    its    whorls 
In   orderly   succession    round    the   stem 
Of  my   design,   that    straight    and   strong    shot    up 
Toward   inflorescence,    my   long   work   went  on, 
Till    I    was    filled    with   satisfying  joy. 
This  lasted   for   a   little   time,  and    then 
There   came    reaction.       I    grew    tired    of  it. 
My   verses  were  as    meaningless    and   stale 


Katlinna  195 

As   doggrel   of  the   stalls.       I    marvelled    much 
That   they  could  ever   have    beguiled    my   pride 
Into   self-gratulation,    or   clone   aught 
But   overwhelm    me   with  contempt    for   them, 
And   the   dull   pen    that    wrote    them. 

I    had    hoped 

To   form    and    finish    my   projected    work 
Within,    and    by,    myself, — to   tease   no   ear 
With    fragmentary   snatches    of  my    song, 
And    call    for   no    support    from    friendly   praise 
To   re-enforce   my   courage ;    but   the    stress 
Of  my  'disgust    and   my   despair — the   need, 
Imperative   and   absolute,    to    brace    myself 
By   some   opinion    borrowed   for   the   nonce, 
And   bathe   my   spirit    in    the   sympathy 
Of  some   strong   nature — mastered    my   intent, 
And   sent   me   for   resource   to   her   whose   heart 
Was   ever   open   to   my   call. 

She    sat 

Through    the   long   hour   in    which    I    read    to    her, 
Absorbed,    entranced,   as   one   who   sits   alone 
Within    a    dim    cathedral,    and    resigns 


196 


Kat/iriua 


His    spirit   to   the   organ-theme,    that    mounts, 

Or    sinks    in    tremulous    pauses,    or    sweeps    out 

On    mighty    pinions    and    with    trumpet    voice 

Through    labyrinthine   harmonies,   at   last 

Emerging,   and    through    silver    clouds    of  sound 

Receding    and    receding,    till    it    melts 

Into    the    empyrean    and    is    lost. 

It    was    not    needful    she    should    say    a    word  ; 

For    in    her    glowing    eyes    and    kindling    face, 

I    caught    the    full    assurance    that    my    heart 

Had    yearned    for ;    but    she  spoke    her    hearty  praise 

And    when    I   asked    her    for    her    criticism, 

Bestowed    it    with    such    modest    deference 

To    my    opinion    as    to    spare    my    pride  ; 


Kathrina  197 

Yet    with    such    subtle   sense    of  harmony, 
And    insight    of  proportion,    that    I    saw 
That    I    should    find    no    critic    in    the    world 
Moie    competent    or    more    severe.       I    said, 
Gulping    my    pride :    "  Better    this   ordeal 
In    friendly    hands,    before    the    time    of  types, 
Than    afterward,    in    hands    of  enemies." 

So,    from    that   reading,    it    was    understood 
Between    us    that,    whenever    I    essayed 
Revising    and    retouching,    I    should    know 
Her   intimate    impressions,    and    receive 
Her    frank    suggestions.       In    this    oversight 
And    constant    interest    of  one    whose    mind 
Was    excellent    and    pure,    and    raised    above 
All    motive   to   beguile   me,    I    secured 
New   inspiration. 

Weeks    and    months    passed    by 

With    gradient    hopefulness,    and    strength    renewed 
At   each    renewal    of  the    confidence 
I    had    reposed    in    her ;    till    I    perceived 
That    I    was    living    on    her    praise — that    she 
Held    God's    place    in    me    and    the    multitude's. 


198  Kathrina 

And    now,   as    I    look    back   upon    those   days 
Of  difficult   endeavor,    I    confess 
That   had   she   not   been    with    me,    I    had    failed — 
Ay,    foundered    in    mid-sea — my   hope,    my   life, 
The   spoil   of  deep   oblivion. 

At   last 

The   work   was    done — the   labored   volume    closed. 
"  I   cannot   make   it   better,"    I    exclaimed. 
"  I    can   write   better,    but,    before    I    write, 
I    must    have   recognition    in    the   voice 
Of  public    praise.      A   good    paymaster   pay 
When    work   is    finished.       Let    him    pay    for    this, 
And    I    will   work   again  ;    but,    till    he   pay, 
My   leisure   is    my   own,    and    I    will   wait." 

"  And    if  he   grudge   your   wage  ? "    suggested   she 
To    whom    I    spoke. 

"  I    shall    be    finished    too. 

Came    then    the   proofs,    and   latest   polishing 

Of  words    and    phrases — work    I    shared   with   her 

To   whom    I    owed   so   much  ;    and    then    the   fear, 


Kathrina  \  99 

The   deathly   heart-fall,   and   the    haunting   dread 
That   go   before   exposure    to    the    world 
Of  inmost    life,    and    utmost    reach   of  power 
Toward    revelation  ; — then   the    shrinking   spell, 
When    morbid    love   of  self  awaits  in    pain 
The    verdicl   it    has   courted. 

But   at   last 

The   book  was    out.       My  daughter's    hand   in    mine — 
Her    careless   feet,   that    thrilled    with    springing   life, 
Skipping    the   pavement — I    walked   down    Broadway, 
To   ease    the   restlessness   and   cool   the    heat 
That    vexed   my   idle    waiting.      As   we    passed 
A    showy   window,    filled   with    costly   books, 
My   little   girl    exclaimed  :  "  Oh    father  !     See  ! 
There   is   your   name !  " 

Straight    all    the   bravery 

Within    my    veins,    at   one   wild    heart-thump,  dropped, 
And    I    was    limp    as    water  ;    but    I    paused, 
And    read    the    poster.       It.  announced    my   book 
In    characters    of   flame,    with    adjectives 
My    daring    publisher   had    filched,    I    think, 
From    an    old    circus-broadside. 


200 


Katlirina 


"Well!"  thought    I— 

Biting   my   lip—"  I'm    in    the   market    now ! 
How   much — O  !    rattling,    roaring    multitude  ! 
O !    selfish,   cheating,    lying   multitude ! 
O  !    hawking,    trading,   delving   multitude  !— 
How   much    for   one   man's   hope,  for   one    man's   life 5 
What    for    his  toil    and    pain  ?— his    heart's    red    blood? 
What   for   his   brains   and    breeding?      Oh    how    much 
For   one    who    craves   your   praises   with   your   pence, 
And   dies   with   your   denial  ? " 


Katkrina  201 

I    went    in, 

And    bought    my    book — not    doubting    I    was    first 
To   give    response    to   my   apostrophe. 
The    smug   old    clerk,   who    found   his   length   of  ear 
Convenient   as    a   pencil-rack,   and   thus 
Made   nature's    wrath   proclaim    the   praise   of  trade, 
Wrapped  my  dear   bantling    well  ;    and,  as    he  dropped 
My    dollar    in    his    till,    smiled    languidly 
Upon    my   little    girl,    and    said    to    me — 
To    cheer   me  in    my   purchase — that   the   book 
Was    thought   to   be   a   deuced   clever   thing. 
He   never  read    such    books :    he   had    no   time. 
Indeed,    he   had   no    interest   in    them. 
Still,   other   people   had,   and    it   was    well, 
For   it  helped    trade   along. 

It    was    for   him — 
A   vulgar   fraction   of  the   integral 
We   speak   of  as    "  the   people,"    and    "  the   world  " — 
I    had   been   writing !     Had    he    read    my   book, 
And   given   it   his   praise,    I    should    have   been 
Delighted,    though    I   knew   that    his   applause 
Was   worthless   as   his   brooch.      I   was   a   fool, 

Undoubtedly  ;    yet    I    could    understand, 

26 


202  Kathrina 

Better   than   e'er   before,    how   separate 
The   artist  is    from   such    a   soul   as    his — 
What  need   of  teachers   and   interpreters 
To    crumble    in    his    pewter   porringer 
The   rounded   loaf,    whose   crust   was    adamant 
To   his    weak   fingers. 

The    next   morning's   press 

Was   purchased   early,    though    I    read   in   vain 
To    find   my   reputation.      But   at    night 
My   door-bell   rang ;    and    I    received   a   note 
From    one    who    edited    an    evening    print 
(I    had   dined   with   him    at   my   publisher's) 
Inclosing    a   review,    and    venturing 
The    hope   that    I    should   like   it. 

Cunning   man  ! 

He   knew   the   tricks   of  trade,   and  was   adroit. 
My   poem  was    "  a   revelation."      I    had    "  burst 
Like   thunder   from    a   calm    and   cloudless    sky." 
Well,    not   to   quote   his   language,    this   the   drift : 
A   man   of  fortune,    living   at   his   ease, 
But   fond   of  manly   effort,  had   sat  down, 
And   turned   his   culture   to    supreme   account  ; 


Kathrina  203 

And    he — the   editor — took   on    himself 

To    thank   him    on    the   world's    behalf.      Withal, 

The   poet   had   betrayed   the   continence 

Of  genius.      He   had    held,    undoubtedly, 

The   consciousness   of  power   from   early   youth  ; 

But,    yielding   never    to    the  itch    for   print, 

Had    nursed   and   chastened   and   developed    it 

Until   his    hand   was   strong,    and  swept   his   lyre 

With    magic   of  a   master. 

Followed   here 

Sage   comments   on    the   rathe   and   puny   brood 
Of  poet-sucklings,   who   had   rushed    to    type 
Before  their  time — pale  stems  that   spun   their   flowers 
In    the   first    sunshine,    but,    when    Autumn    came, 
Were   fruitless.       It   was    pleasant,   too,   to   see, 
In    such   an   age   of  sentimental    cant, 
One   man    who   dared    to    hold    up    to   the   world 
A    creature   of  his   brain,   and    say :    "  Look   you ! 
This   is    my   thought  ;    and   it   shall   stand   alone. 
It   has    no   moral,   bears   no    ministry 
Of  pious    teaching,    and   makes    no    appeal 
To   sufferance   or   suffrage   of  the    muffs 
Who,    in   the   pulpit   or   the   press,    prepare 


204  Kathrina 

The   nation's   pap.      The   fiery-footed   barb 

That   pounds   the   pampas,   and   the   lily-bells 

That    hang   above   the    brooks,    present   the   world 

With    no   apology   for   being   there, 

And   no   attempt   to  justify   themselves 

In   uselessness.       It   is    enough    for   God 

That   they   are   beautiful,   and    hold    his    thought 

In   fine   embodiment  ;    and    it   shall   be 

Enough   for   me   that,   in    this   book   of  mine, 

I    have   created   somewhat   that   is   strong 

And   beautiful,   which,   if  it   profit, — well : 

If  not,   'tis   no   less    strong   and   beautiful, 

And   holds   its    being   by    no   feebler   right." 

Ay,    it   was   glorious    to   find   one   man 
Who   piled    no    packs    upon    his   Pegasus, 
Nor   chained    him    to    a   rag-cart,    loaded   down 
With    moral   frippery,   and    strings   of  bells 
To   call   the   people   to   their  windows. 

Then 

There   followed   extracts,   with   a   change   of  type 
To   mark   the   places   where   the   editor 
Had   caught   a   fancy   hiding,    which    he   feared 


Kathrina  205 

Might    slip   detection    under   slower   eyes 

Than    those    he    carried ;    or   to   emphasize 

Felicities    of  diction   that   were    stiff 

In    Roman   verticals,    but   grew   divine 

At    the    Italic    angle  ;    then    apology, 

Profoundly    humble,    to    his    patrons    all 

For   quoting   at    such   length,   and   one   to   me 

For    quoting   anything,    and    deep    regrets, 

In    quite   a   general   way,    that   lack   of  space 

Forbade   the   reproduction    of  the   book 

From    title-page    to    tail-piece,    winding    up 

With    counsel   to   all   lovers   of  pure   art, 

Patrons   of  genius,    all    Americans, 

All    friends    of  cis-Atlantic    literature, 

To   buy   the   book,    and   read   it    for   themselves. 

I    drank   the   whole,    at   one   long,   luscious   draught, 

Tipping    the    tankard    high,    that    I    might    see 

My   features   at   the   bottom,    and    regale 

My   pride,   after   my   palate.      Then    I    tossed 

The   paper   to   my   wife,    and    bade   her   read. 

I   watched    her   while   she   read,   but   failed   to   find 

The   sympathy   of  pleasure    in    her   face 

I    had    expected.       Finishing   at    last, 


206  Kathrina 

She    raised    her   eyes,    and,    fixing    them    on    me, 
Said    thoughtfully:    "You    like    this,    I   suspecV 

"  Well,   yes ! "    responded    I,    "  since   it   appears 
To    be    the    first   instalment   of  the    wage 
Which    you    suggested    might    come    grudgingly. 
Ay,    it    is    sweet    to    me.       I    know    it    fails 
In    nice    discrimination, — that    it    slurs 
Defects   which    I    perceive   as   well   as   you ; 
But  it    is    kind,    and    places    in    best    light 
Such   excellences   as   we   both    may   find — 
May   claim,   indeed." 

"And   yet,   it   is    a  lie, 
Or   what   the   editor  would   call    'a   puff/ 
From    first    to    last.      The    '  continence/    my    dear, 
'  Of  genius  ! '      What   of  that  ?      And   what   about 
The    '  manly   effort/    for   whose   exercise 
He    thanked    you    on    the    world's    behalf?      And    so 
Your   nursing,    chastening,    and   developing 
Of  power  ! — Pray    what   of  these  ? " 

"Oh!   wife!"    I    said; 
"  Don't   spoil    it   all !      Be   pitiful,    my   love ! 


Kathrina  207 

I    am    a    baby — granted :    so    I    need 

The    touch    of  tender   hands,    and    something   sweet 

To    keep    me   happy." 

"Babies   take    a    bath, 

Sometimes,    from    which   the   hand   of  warmest  love 
Filches   the   chill,   and   you   must    have    one   dash," 
She   answered   me,    "  to    close   your   complement. 
The    weakest    spot    in    all    your    book,    he    found 
With    a    quick    instinct ;    and    on    that    he    spent 
His   sharpest   force   and   finest    rhetoric, 
Shoring    and    bracing    it    on    every    side 
With    bold    assumptions   and   affirmatives, 
To    blind    the   eyes    of   novices,   and    scare 
With    fierce    forestalment    all    the    critic-quills 
Now   bristling   for   their   chance.       He   saw   at   once 
Your    poem    had    no    mission,    save,    perhaps, 
The   tickle   of  the   taste,    and    that   it   bore 
Upon   I'ts    glowing   gold    small    food    for    life. 
He   saw  just   there   the   point   to    be   attacked  ; 
And    there    threw    up    his     earth-works,    and    spread 

out 

His    thorny   abatis.      Ay,   he   was    kind, 
Undoubtedly,    and   very   cunning,    too  ; 


208  Kathrina 

For   well    he   knew    that    there   are   earnest   souls 

In    the    broad    world,    who    claim    that    highest    art 

Is    highest    ministry    to    human   need ; 

And   that   the   artist   has    no    Christian    right 

To    prostitute   his    art   to    selfish   ends, 

Or   make   it   vehicle   alone   of  plums 

For    the    world's    pudding." 

'•  These    will    speak   in    time," 
Responded    I  ;    "  but   they    have   not    the   ear 
Of  the   broad   world,    I    think.      The    Christian    right 
Of  which   you   speak   is    hardly   recognized 
Among    the    multitude,    or   by   the    guild 
In    which    I    claim    a   place.      The   seclaries 
Who   furnish   folios,   quartos,   magazines 
To   the   religious   few,    are   limited 
In    influence  ;    and    these,    my   wife,   are   all 
I    have   to   fear ; — nay,   could    I    but   arouse 
Their   bitter   enmity,    I    might   receive 
Such    superflux   of  praise   and   patronage 
As    would   o'erwhelm    my   sweetly    Christian    wife 
With    shame   and    misery.      But   we   shall    see ; 
And,    in    the   mean    time,   let    us    be   content 
That,   if  one   man  shall   praise   me   overmuch, 


Kathrina  209 

Ten,   at   the  least,   will    fail   to   render   me 
Befitting  justice." 

As    the   days   went   on, 
Reviews   and   notices   came   pouring   in. 
I   was    notorious,   at   least  ;    and    fame, 
I    whispered    comfortably    to    myself, 
Is   only   notoriety   turned   gray, 
With    more   of  steadiness,    if  less   of  fire. 
The   adverse   verdicts   were   not    numerous  ; 
And   these   were    rendered,   as    I    fancied   then, 
By   sanctimonious    fools,    who   deemed   profane 
All   verse   outside   their   thumb-worn   hymnodies. 
My   book   received    the   rattling   fusilade 
Of  all   the   dailies  ;    then   the   artillery 
Of  the   hebdomadals,    whose   noisy    shells, 
Though    timed    by   fuse    to   burst  on    Saturday, 
Exploded    at   the   middle   of  the   week ; 
And   last,   a  hundred-pounder   quarterly 
Gave   it   a   single    missive   from   its   mask 
Of  far   and   dark   impersonality. 
The   smoke   cleared    up,   and    still    my   colors    flew, 
And    still    my   book   stood   proudly   in   the   sun, 

Nor   breached   nor   battered. 

27 


2.10  Katkrina 

I    had    won   a   place  : 

That    I    was    sure   of.      All   had    said   of  me 
That    I    was    "  brilliant  : "    was    not    that   enough  ? 
The   petty   pesterers,    with    card   and   stamp, 
Who   hunt   for   autographs,    were   after   me, 
In   packages    by   post  ;    and    idle    men 
Held   me   at   corners    by   the   button-hole, 
And   introduced    me   to   their   friends.       I    dined 
With    meek-eyed    men,    whose   literary   wives 
Were   dying   all    to   know    me,    as    they   said  ; 
And    the   lyceums,    quick   at    scent   and    sight — 
Watching   the  jungles    for   a   lion — all 
Courted    the   delectation    of  my   roar 
Upon    their   platforms,    pledging   to   my   hand 
(With   city    reference   to   stanchest    names) 
Such    honoraria   as    would    have   been 
The   lion's   share   of  profits.      These   were   straws 
But    they   had    surer   fingers    for   the   wind 
Than    withes   or   weathercocks. 

The   book    sold    well. 

My   publisher    (who   published    at    my    risk), 
And  first   put   on   the  airs    of    one    who    stooped 
To   grant   a   favor,    brimmed    and    overflowed 


Kathrina  2 1 1 

With    courtesy ;    and,    ere   a   year   was   gone, 

Became   importunate   for   something    more. 

This    was    his    plea :    I    owed    it   to    myself 

To    write   again.      The   time   to   make   one's    hay 

Is    when  the    sun    shines :    time   to   write   one's    books 

Is    when    the   public    humor   turns   to   them. 

The   public    would    forget   me   in    a   year, 

And    seek    another   idol  ;    or,    meanwhile, 

Another   writer   might  usurp   my   throne, 

And    I    be    hooted    from    my   own   domain 

As    a    pretender.       Then    the   market's   maw 

Was    greedy    for   my    poems.      Just   how   long 

The    appetite    would    last,    he   could    not   tell, 

For   appetite    is    subject    of  caprice, 

And    never   lasts    too  long. 

The   man   was   wise, 

I    plainly    saw,    and    gave   me   the   results 
Of  observation    and   experience. 
I    took   his    hint,   accepting   with   a   pang 
The    truths    that    came  with  it  :   for  instance,  these : — 
That   he    who    speaks    for   praise   of  those    who    live, 
Must    keep   himself  before   his   audience, 
Nor  look   for   "  bravas,"    cheers,  and   cries    of  "  hear ! " 


2 1  2  Katlirina 

And    clap   of  hands   and    stamp   of  feet,    except 

With    fresh    occasion  ;    that    applause    of  crowds, 

Though   fierce,    runs    never   to   the    chronic    stage  ; 

That    good    paymasters,    having    paid    for    work 

The   doer's   price,    expect   receipt   in   full 

At    even   date ;    and    that   if  I    would   k'eep 

My    place,   as   grand    purveyor    to   the   greed 

For   novelties   of  literary   art, 

My    viands    must    be    sapid,    and    abound 

With   change,    to    wake   or   whet    the   appetite 

I    sought   to   feed. 

I   say    I    took   his    hint, 
Bestowed   in    selfishness,    without   a   doubt, 
Though    in    my    interest.       For    ten    long   years 
It    was    the    basis    of  my    policy. 
I    poured    my    poems    with    redundancy 
Upon    the    world,    and    won    redundant    meed. 
If   I    gave    much,    the    world    was    generous, 
Repaying   more    than  justice :    but,    at   last, 
Tired    and    disgusted,    I    laid    down    my    pen. 
I    knew    my    work    would    not    outlast    my   life, 
That   the    enchantments    which    had    wreathed    them- 
selves 


Kathrina 


213 


Around    my   name    were   withering   away 

With    every   breath    of  fragrance   they   exhaled  ;  . 

And    that,    too    soon,    the    active    brain    and    hand 

Whose    skill   had  conjured    them,  would    faint  and    fail 

Under   the   press   of  weariness   and   years. 

My   reputation    piqued   me.       None   believed 

That   it   was    in    me    to    write   otherwise 

Than   I    had   written.      All    the   world    had    laughed, 

Or   shaken    its    wise   head,    had    I    essayed 

A   work   beyond    the    round    of  brilliancies 

In    which    my    pen    had    revelled,    and    for   which 

It   gave   such    princely   guerdon.       If  I    looked, 

Or   came   to   look,    with    measureless    contempt 

On    those   who   gave   with    such    munificence 

The   boon    I    sought,    I    had    provoking   cause. 

I    fooled    them    all   with    patent   worthlessness, 

And    they    insisted    I    should    fool    them    still. 

The    wisdom    of  a    whole   decade   had   failed 

To   teach    them    that   the    thing   my   hand    had   done 

Was    not   worth    doing. 

More   and   worse   than    this : 
I    found   my   character   and   self-respect 
Eroded    by    the    canker   of  conceit, 


214  Kathrina 

Poisoned    by  jealousy,   and    made    the   prey 

Of  meanest    passions.       Harlequins    in  -mask, 

Who    live    upon    the    laughter   of  the    throng 

That   crowds   their   reeking   amphitheatres  ; 

Light-footed   dancing-girls,    who   sell    their   grace 

To   gaping   lechers   of  the   pit,    to   win 

That  which   shall   feed   their   shameless    vanity  ; 

The   mimics   of  the   buskin — baser   still. 

The   mimics   of  the   negro — minstrel-bands, 

With   capital   of  corks   and   castanets 

And    threadbare  jests — Ah  !    who   and   what    was    I 

But   brother   of  all    these — in   higher   walk, 

But   brother   in   the   motive   of  my   life, 

In  jealousy,    in    recompense   for   toil, 

And,   last,    in    destiny  ? 

My   wife   had   caught 

Stray   silver   in   her  hair    in    these   long   years  ; 
And   the   sweet   maiden    springing   from   our   lives 
Had   grown    to    womanhood.       In    my   pursuits, 
Which    drank    my    time    and    my   vitality, 
I    had   neglected   them.      I    worked   at   home, 
But   lived   in    other   scenes,    for   other   lives, 
Or,    rather,    for   my    own ;    and    though    my   pride 


Kathrina  215 

Shrank   from    the   deed,    I    had    the   tardy   grace 
To   call    them    to   me,  and    confess    my   shame, 
And    beg   for   their   forgiveness. 

Once   again — 

All   explanations   passed — I    sat   beside 
My   faithful    wife,   and    canvassed    as   of  old 
New   plans    of  life.       I    found    her   still   the   same 
In    purpose   and    in   magnanimity  ; 
For   she   dealt   no   upbraidings   and    no   blame ; 
Cast   in    my   teeth    no    old-time   prophecies 
Of  failure  ;    felt    no    triumph   which   rejoiced 
To    mock   me   with    the   words,    "  I    told   you   so." 
Calmly   she   sat,    and   tried,   with   gentlest   speech, 
To    heal    the    bruises   of  my   fall  ;    to   wake 
A   better   feeling   in   me   toward   the   world, 
And    soothe   my   morbid    self-contempt. 

The   world, 

She    said,    is   apt   to    take   a   public   man 
At   his   own    estimate,    and   yield   him    place 
According   to    his    choice.     I    had   essayed 
To   please   the   world,    and   gather   in    its    praise  ; 
And,   certainly,    the   world   was   pleased    with    me, 


2 1 6  Kathrina 

And    had   not    stinted   me   in  its    return 

Of  plauditory   payment.      As  the   world 

Had    taken    me   according    to  my    rate, 

And    rilled    my   wish,    it   had  a   valid    claim 
On    my   good-nature. 

Then,    beyond   all    this, 

The   world   was    not    a   fool.      Those    books   of  mine, 
That    I    had   come   to   look   upon   as    trash, 
Were   not   all   trash.      My   motive    had   been    poor, 
And   that   had   vitiated    them  for   me  ; 
But   there   was    much    in   them   that   yielded    strength 
To   struggling   souls,    and,    to    the   wounded,   balm. 
Indeed,    she   had    been    helped   by   them,   herself. 
They   were   all   pure  ;    they   made   no   foul   appeal 
To   baseness   and    brutality  ;    they   had 
An    element   of  gentle   chivalry, 
Such   as    must   have   a   place   in    any    man 
Shrinking   with    sensitiveness,   like   myself, 
From    a   fine   reputation,   scorning   it 
For   motive   which    had   won    it. 

Words   like   these, 
From   lips   like   hers,   were   needed    medicine. 


Kathrina  2 1 7 

They    clarified    my   weak   and  jaundiced   sight, 

And   helped    to  juster   vision    of  the   world, 

And    of  myself.      But    there   was    no   return 

Of  the   old   greed  ;    and   fame,  which    I    had   learned 

To    be   an   entity  quite   different 

From    my    conceit    of  it   in   other   days, 

Was   something   much    too   far   and    nebulous 

To   be    my   star   of  life. 

"You   have   some   plan?"  — 

Statement   and   query   in   same   words,    which   fell 
From    lips    that   sought    to   rehabilitate 
My    will   and   self-respe6t. 

"I    have,"    I    said. 

"  Else   you   were   dead,"    responded    she.      "  To   live, 
Men  must  have  plans.      When   these   die   out  of  men 
They   crumble   into   chaos,    or   relapse 
Into   inanity.      Will  you   reveal 
These   plans   of  yours   to   me  ? " 

"Ay,  if   I   can," 

I    answered   her ;    "  but   first    I    must   reveal 

28 


2 1 8  Kathrina 

The   base   on   which    I    build   them.      I    have   tried 

To    find    the   occasion    of  my   discontent, 

And   find    it,   as    I    think,  just   here :    In    quest 

Of  popularity,    I    have   become 

Untrue   both   to   myself  and    to   my   art. 

I    have   not   dared    to   speak    the   royal    truth 

For   fear   of  censure :    I    have   been   a   slave 

To    men's   opinions.      What   is   best   in    me 

Has   been   debauched   by   the   pursuit   of  praise 

As    life's    best    prize.      Conviction,    sentiment, 

All   love   and   hate,    all    sense   of  right   and   wrong, 

I    have   held   in   abeyance,   or   compelled 

To   work   in   menial   subservience 

To    my   grand   purpose.       If  my    sentiment 

Or    my   conviction    were   but   popular, 

It   flowed   in    hearty   numbers  :    otherwise, 

It   slept   in    silence. 

"  Now   as    to    my   art  ; 
I    find   that    it   has   suffered   like    myself, 
And    suffered    from    same   cause.     My  verse   has   been 
Shaped    evermore   to   meet   the   people's    thought. 
That   which   was   highest,   grandest   in    my   art 
I    have    not   reached,   and   have   not   tried    to   reach. 


Kathrina  2 1 9 

I    have   but   touched    the   surfaces    of  things 
That   meet    the    common    vision  ;    and    my   art 
Has   only   aimed    to   clothe   them    gracefully 
With   fancy's   gaudy  fabrics,   or   portray 
Their   patent   beauties  and   deformities. 
Above   the   people   in    my   gift   and   art, 
Both   gift   and   art   have   had   a   downward    trend, 
And   both   are   prostitute. 

"  Discarding   praise 
As  motive   of  my   labor    I    confess 
My   sins   against   my   art,   and   so   henceforth, 
As   to   my   goddess,   give   myself  to   her. 
The   chivalry   which   you   are   pleased    to    note 
In    me   and    works'  of  mine,   turns   loyally 
To   her   and   to   her   service.      Nevermore 
Shall   pen   of  mine   demean   itself  by   work 
That   serves    not   first,   and    with   supreme   intent, 
The   art   whose   slave   it   is." 

• 

"  I    understand, 

I    think,    the   basis   of  your   plan,'    she   said  ; 
"And   e'en   the   plan    itself.      You   now   propose 
To    write   without    remotest   reference 


22O  Kathrina 

To   the   world's   wishes,    prejudices,    needs, 
Or    e'en    the    world's    opinions, — quite   content 
If  the    world    find    aught    in    you    to    applaud  ; 
Quite   as    content   if  it   condemn.      With   full 
Expression    of  yourself,    in    finest   terms 
And    noblest    forms   of  art,    so   far   as    God 
Has    made   you   masterful,   you   give   yourself 
Up   to   yourself  and   to   your   art.      Is   this 
Fair   statement   of  your   purpose?" 

"  Not   unfair," 
I    answered.      "Tell    me   what   you    think    of  it." 

"  Suppose,"    she   said,    "  that   all   the   artist-souls 

That    God    has   made   since    time   and   art   began 

Had   acted   on   your   theory :    suppose 

In    architecture,    picture,   poetry, 

Naught   had   found    utterance   but    works    that   sprang 

To   satisfy   the    worker,   and    reveal 

That   bundle   of  ideas   which,    to   him, 

\ 

Is    instituted    art ;    but    which,    in    truth, 
Is    figment   of  his   fancy,   or   his   thought, — 
His    creature,    made   his   God — say    where    were   all 
The   temples,    palaces,  and   homes   of  men  ; 


Kathrina  2  2 1 

The   galleries    that    blaze   with    history, 

Or   bloom    with   landscape,    or   look   down 

With   smiles   of  changeless   love   or   loveliness 

Into    the   hearts   of  men  ?      And    where   were  all 

The   poems    that   give   measure   to   their   praise, 

Voice   to   their   aspirations,    forms    of  light 

To   homely   fa6ts   and   features   of  their   life, 

Enveloping   this   plain,   prosaic    world 

In   an   ideal  atmosphere,    in    which 

Fair   angels    come   and   go  ?      All   gifts    of  men 

Were   made   for   use,   and   made   for   highest   use. 

If  highest   use   be   service   of  one's    self, 

And   highest   standard,    one's   embodiment 

Of  dogmas,    theories,  and   thoughts   of  art, 

As    art's    identity,    then   are   you   right  ; 

But   if  a   higher   use   of  gift   and    art 

Be   service   of  mankind,    and   higher   rule 

God's    regal   truth,    revealed    in    words    or   worlds, 

And  verified    by   life,    then   are   you   wrong." 

"  But    art  ?  " — responded    I — "  you   do   not   mean 
That    art    is    nothing    but    a    thing    of  thought, 
Or,    less    than    that,   of  fancy  ?      Nay,    I    claim 
That    it    is    somewhat — a   grand  '  entity — 


222  Kathrina 

An    organism    of  lofty   principles, 
Informed   with   subtlest   life,    and    clothed   upon 
With    usage   and   tradition    of  the   men 
Who,   working   in   those    sunny   provinces 
Where   it   holds   eminent   domain,    have   brought 
To  build   its    temple   and   adorn   its   walls 
The   usufruct   of  countless    lives.      So   fai- 
ls  art   from   being   creature   of  man's    thought 
That   it   is    subject   of  his   knowledge — stands 
In    mighty   mystery,    and   challenges 
The   study    of  the   world  ;    rules   noblest   minds 
Like   law   or   like   religion  ;    is   a   power 
To    which    the    proudest    artist-spirits    bow 
With    humblest   homage.       Is   astronomy 
The   creature   of  man's   thought  ?      Is    chemistry  ? 
Yet   these   hold    not,    in    this  our   universe, 
A    form   more   definite,    nor   yet   a   place 
In    human   knowledge    more   beyond   dispute, 
Than    art   itself.      To   this   embodiment 
Of  theory — of  dogmas,    if  you   will — 
This   body   aggregate    of  truth,    revealed 
In    growing   light   of  ages    to   the   eyes 
Touched    to   perception,    I    devote    my   life." 


Katlirina  223 

"  Nay,   you're   too   fast,"    she   said :    "  let   alchemy 

And    old   astrology   present   your   thought. 

These   were    somewhat  ;    these   were   grand    entities  ; 

But   they   went   out   like   candles    in    thin   air 

When    knowledge   came.      The   sciences   are   things 

Of  law,   of  force,    relations,   measurements, 

Affinities    and    combinations,    all 

The   definite,   demonstrable    effects 

Of  first   and   second   causes.      Between    these 

And    men's   opinions,    braced   by  usages, 

The     space     is     wide.       The     thing    which     you    call 

art 

Is    anything   but    definite    in    form, 
Or   fixed   in    law.       It   has   as    many   shapes 
As    worshippers.      The    world   has    many   books, 
Written    by   earnest   men,    about    this   art ; 
But,    having  read    them,    we   are    no    more    wise 
Than    he    whose   observation    of  the   sun 
Is    taken    by   kaleidoscope.       The    more 
He    sees   in    it,    the   more   he   is    confused. 
The    sun   works,    doubtless,    many   fine   effects 
With    what   he   sees,   but   he   sees    not   the   sun." 

"  But   art    is    art,"    I    said.      "  You'd    cheat   rny   sense, 


224  Kathrina 

And   mock   my   reason   too.       Ay,    art    is    art. 
Things   must   have    being   that    have   history." 

Then    she :    "  Yes,   politics    has    history, 

And   therefore    has    a   being, — has,   in    truth, 

Just    such   a   being   as    I    grant    to   art, — 

A    being    of  opinions.       Every    state 

Has    origin    and   ends   of  government 

Peculiarly    its    own,    and    so,    from    these, 

Constructs    its    theory   of  politics, 

And   holds    this    theory   against    the  world ; 

And   holds    it   well.      There    is    no    fixedness 

Or    form    of  politics    for   all    mankind ; 

And   there   is    none   of  art.       Each    artist-soul 

Is    its    own    law  ;    and    he    who    dares    to    bring 

From    work   of  other   man,    to    lay    on    yours, 

His    square  and   compasses — declaring   him 

The   pattern    man — and    tells,    by   him,   you   lack 

Just    so    much    here,    or    wander    so    much    there, 

Thereby   confesses  just   how    much    he    lacks 

Of  wisdom  and    plain    sense.      For   every   man 

Has   special   gift    of  power   and   end    of  life. 

No   man   is   great   who   lives    by  other   law 

Than    that    which    wrapped    his    genius    at    his    birth. 


Kathrina 


225 


The    Lind    is    great    because    she    is    the    Lind, 

And    not    the    Malibran.       Recorded    art 

Is    yours    to    study — e'en    to    imitate, 

In    education — imitate    or    shun, 

As   the   case    warrants  ;    but   it    has   destroyed, 

Or   toned   to   commonplace,    more   gifts   of  God 

Than    it   has   ever   fanned   to   life   or   fed. 

Who   never   walks   save    where    he   sees    men's    tracks 

Makes    no   discoveries.      Show    me    the    man 

Who,    leaving    God   and    nature   and    himself, 

Sits   at    the   feet   of  masters,   stuffs   his   brain 

With   maxims,    notions,    usages    and    rules, 

And    yields    his    fancy   up    to   leading-strings, 

And    I    shall    see   a   man   who    never   did 

A    deed   worth    doing.       So,    in    the    name   of  art — 

Nay,    in    the    name   of  God — do    no    such   thing 

As    smutch    your   knees    by   bowing   at    a   shrine 

Whose   doubtful   deity,    in    midst   of  dust, 

Sits    in   the   cast-off  robes   of  devotees, 

And    lives    on    broken    victuals!" 

"  Drive,    my   dear ! 
Drive   on,    and    over   me !      You're   on    the   old 

High-stepping  horse   to-night  ;    so   give  him  rein, 

29 


226  Kathrina 

For   exercise   is   good,"    I    said,    in    mirth. 

"  You   sit   your   courser   finely.      I    confess 

I'm    very   proud   of  you,    and    too   much    pleased 

With   your   accomplishments    to   check   your   speed. 

Drive   on,   my   love !    drive   on  ! " 

"  I    thank   you,    sir ! 

No   one   so   gracious   as  your   grudging   man 
Under   compulsion  !      With   your   kind   consent 
I'll   drive   a   little   further,"    she   replied, — 
"  For   I    enjoy   it   quite   as    much   as   you, — 
The  more   because   you've   given   me   little   chance 

In   these   last   years Now,   soberly,    this   art — 

Of  which   we  .talk   so   much,   without   the   power 

To   tell    exactly   what    we   understand 

By   the   hack    term — suppose   we   take   the   word, 

And   try   to   find    its    meaning.      You    recall 

Old   John,    who   dressed    the   borders    in   our   court : 

You   called    him,   hired    him,    told    him    what   to   do. 

He   and   his   rake   stood   interposed   between 

You   and   your   work.      You   chose   his  skilful   hands, 

Endowing   them    with   pay,   or   pledge   of  pay, 

And   set   him    at   his   labor.      Now   suppose 

Old   John    had    had    a   philosophic    turn 


Kathrina  227 

After  you   left   him,   and   had   thought   like   this : 

'  I    am    called   here   to   do   a   certain   work — 

My   rake   tells    what  ;    and   he  who   called    me   here 

Has   given   me   the   motive   for   the  job. 

The   work   is   plain.      These   borders   are   to   be 

Levelled   and   cleaned   of  weeds :    my   hand   and   rake 

Are   fitted   for   the   service  ; — this    my   art ; 

And   it   is    first   of  all    the   arts.      There's    none 

More   ancient,    useful,    worshipful,    indeed, 

Than    agriculture.      Adam   practised   it  ; 

Poets   have   sung   its    praises  ;    and    the   great 

Of  every   age   have   loved   and    honored   it. 

This    art   is    greater   than    the   man    I    serve, 

And   greater   than    his    borders.      Therefore    I 

Will   serve   my   art,   and   let   the   borders   lie, 

And    my   employer   whistle.      True   to   that, 

And    to   myself,    it    matters   not   to.  me 

What    weeds    may   grow,    or    what   the   master   think 

Of  my   proceeding  ! ' 

"  So,    intent   on    this, 

He   hangs   his   rake   upon  your  garden   wall, 
And    steals   your   clematis,    with   which    to   wind 
The   handle   upward ;    then   o'erfills    his   hands 


228  Kathrina 

With    roses    and   geraniums,   and    weaves 

Their   beauty   into   laurel,    for   a   crown 

For    his    slim    god,    completing    his    devoir 

By   buttering   the    teeth,   and   kneeling   clown 

In   abject   homage.      Pray,    what   would   you   say, 

At   close   of  day,    when   you    should  go    to    see 

Your   untouched   borders,    and   your   gardener 

At   genuflexion,   with   your   mignonnette 

In   every    button-hole  ?      Remember,    now, 

He  has   been    true   to   art   and    to    himself, 

According   to   his    notion  ;    nor   forget 

To   take  along   a   dollar   for   his    hire, 

Which  he  expects,  of  course  !     What  would  you  say  ?  " 

"Oh  don't  mind  that :  you've  reached  your  'fifthly'  now, 
And    here   the    '  application '    comes,"    I    said. 

"  I    think,"    responded    she,   with    an   arch    smile, 

"  The   application's    needless :    but   you    men 

Are   so   obtuse,   when   will   is    in    the    way, 

That    I    will   do   your   bidding.      Every   gift 

That    God   bestows    on   men    holds    in   itself 

The   secret  of  its   office,   like   the   rake 

The   gardener   wields.      The   rake  was    made    to  till — 


Kathrina  229 

Was    fashioned,    head   and    handle,    for  just   that  ; 

And   if,   by    grace   of  God,   you    hold    a   gift 

So   fashioned    and   adapted,    that   it   stands 

In    like    relation    of  supremest   use 

To    life   of  men,    the    office   of  your   gift 

Has   perfect   definition.       Gift   like   this 

Is   yours,    my    husband.      In   your   facile   hands 

God    placed   it   for   the    service   of  Himself, 

In    service    of  your    kind.       Taking    this    gift, 

And    using   it   for   God   and    for    the   world, 

In   your   own   way,   and   in   your   own   best   way ; 

Seeking   for   light   and   knowledge   everywhere 

To   guide   your   careful    hand ;    and   opening    wide 

To    spiritual    influx   all   your   soul, 

That    so   your   Master   may   breathe   into   you, 

And  breathe  His  great  life  through  you,  in  such  forms 

Of  pure   presentment   as    He   gives   you   skill 

To   build    withal — that's    all   of  art — for   you. 

Art   is   an   instrument,    and   not   an   end — 

A    servant,    not   a   master,    nor   a   God 

To    be   bowed    down    to.       Shall   we   worship   rakes  ? 

Honor  of  art,    by   him    whose   work   is    art, 

Is    a   fine   passion  ;    but   he   honors   most 

Whose   use   and   end   are   best." 


230  Kathrina 

"  Use  !    Use  !    Use  !  " 

I    cried   impatiently  ; — "  nothing    but    use  I 
As   if  God    never   made   a   violet, 
Or   hung   a   harebell,    or   in   kindling   gold 
Garnished   a   sunset,   or   upreared   the   arch 
Of  a   bright   rainbow,   or   endowed   a   world — 
A   universe,    indeed — stars,    firmament, 
The   vastitudes   of  forest   and  of  sea, 
Swift    brooks    and   sweeping   rivers,   virid   meads 
And   fluff  of  breezy   hills — with   tints   that   range 
The   scale   of  spectral   beauty,   till   they   leave 
No   glint   or   glory   of  the   changeful   light 
Without   a   revelation  !      Is   this   use — 
I    beg  your   pardon,   love :    you   say   '  this   art ' — 
The   sum   and   end   of  art  ?      If  it    be   so, 
Then    God's    no   artist.      Are   the   crystal   brooks 
Sweeter   for   singing   to    the   thirsty    brutes 
That   dip   their   beaded   muzzles    in    the   foam  ? 
Burns   the   tree   better   that   its    leaves   are   green  ? 
Sleeps   the   sun   sounder   under   canopy 
Of  gold    or   rose  ? " 

"  Yet   beauty   has   its   use," 
Responded   she.      "  Whatever   elevates, 


Kathrina  231 

Inspires,   refreshes,    any   human    soul, 

Is    useful    to   that   soul.      Beauty   has    use 

For   you   and    me.      The   dainty   violet 

Blooms  in  our  thought,  and  sheds  its  fragrance  there ; 

And   we   are 'gainers   through    its   ministry. 

All    God's   great   values    wear   the   drapery 

That   most   becomes    them.      Beauty   may,    in    truth, 

Be   incident   of  art   and    not   be   end — 

Its    form,    condition,    features,    dress,    and    still 

The    humblest   value   of  the   things   of  art. 

This   truth    obtains    in  all    God's   artistry. 

Does    God   make   beauty   for    Himself,   alone  ? 

He   is,   and   holds,    all    beauty.      Has    He    need 

To   kindle   rushes    that    He   may   behold 

The   glory   of  His   thoughts  ?    or   need    to   use 

His   thoughts   as    plasms    for   the   amorphous   clay 

That    He   may   study   models  ?      For   an    end 

Outside   himself,    He   ever   speaks    Himself; 

And   end    with   him,   is    use." 

"  Well,    I    confess 

There's  truth   in   what   you   utter,"    I    replied  •— 
"  A   modicum    of  truth,   at   least  ;    and   still 
There's   something   more   which    this   our   subtle   talk 


232  Kathrina 

Has   failed   to   give   us.       I    will    not   affirm 

That   art,    recorded   in    its    thousand   forms, 

And   clothed   with   usages,   traditions,    rules, — 

The   thing   of  history — the   mighty   pile 

Of  drift,    that    sweep    of  ages    has    brought    down 

To    heap   the   puzzled   present — is   the    sum 

And    substance   of  all   art.       I    will   not   claim — 

Nay,    mark    me   now — I    will    not   even    claim 

That   beauty   is   art's   end,    or   has   its   end 

Within   itself.      Our   tedious   colloquy 

Has   cleared    away    the   rubbish   from    my   thought, 

And   given    me   cleaner   vision.      I    can    see 

Before,   around   me,    underneath,   above, 

The   great    unrealized  ;    and    while    I    bow 

To    the    traditions    and    the    things    of  art, 

And   hold   my   theories,    I    find    myself 

Inspired   supremely   by   the    Possible 

That   calls    for   revelation — by    the    forms 

That   sleep   imprisoned   in    the   snowy   arms 

Of  still   unquarried    truth,    or   stretch    their   hands 

At   sound   of  sledge   and   drill   and   booming   fire, 

Imploring   for   release.       I    turn    from    men, 

And  stretch  my  hands  toward  these.     I  feel — I  know 

That    there   are  mighty   myriads    waiting   there, 


Kathrina  233 

And    listening   for   my    steps.       Suppose    my   age 

Should    fail    to   give    them    welcome  :    ay,    suppose 

They   may    not   help   a   man    to    coin   a   dime 

Or   cook   a   dinner :    they    will   fare   as    well 

As  much  of  God's  truth  fares,  though  clothed  in  forms 

Divinely   chosen.      Does    God    ever   stint 

His    utterance   because    no    creature   hears  ? 

Is  it    a   grand   and   goodly   thing,    to   spend 

Brave   life   and    precious    treasure   in    a   search 

For   palpitating   water   at    the   pole, 

That    so    the   sum    of  knowledge    may   be  swelled, 

Though    pearls    are    not    increased  ;     and     something 

less 

To    probe    the    Possible    in    art,    or   sit 
Through    months   of  dreary   dark   to   catch    a   glimpse 
Of  the   live   truth    that    quivers   with    the  jar 
Of  movement    at    its    axle  ?     Is    it    good 
To   garner   gain    beyond    the    present    need, 
Won    by   excursive   commerce   in    all    seas  ; 
And   something   less    to   pile   redundantly 
The    spoil    of  thought  ?  " 

"  These   latest    words    of  yours," 

She    answered,    musingly,    "  impress    me    much  ; 

30 


234 


Kathrina 


And   yet,    I    think    I    see    where    they   will   lead, 
Or,    rather,    fail    to    lead.       Your    fantasy 
Is   beautiful,    but   vague.      The    Possible 
Is    a    vast    ocean,    from    which    one    poor    soul, 
With    its    slight    oars,    can    float    but    flimsy    freight  ; 
Yet    I    would    help   your   courage,    for    I    see 
Where   your   sole    motive   lies.      Go   on,    and    prove 
Whether    your    scheme   or   mine  holds   more    of  good 
And    take    my  blessing  with    you."      Then    she   rose, 


And    kissed    my   forehead.       Looking   in    her   face, 
By   the    sharp    light    that    touched   her,    I    was   thrilled 
By    her    flushed    cheeks    and    strangely    lustrous    eyes. 


Kalhrina  235 

She    spoke  not  ;    but  I  heard    the  sigh  she  breathed  - 
The    long-drawn,    weary    sigh — as    she    retired  ; 
And    then    the    Possible,    which    had    inspired 
So    wondrously    my    hope,    drooped    low    around, 
And    filled    me    with    foreboding. 

Had   her   life 

Been   chilled   by    my   neglect  ?      Was    it   on    wane  ? 
Could    she    be   lost    to    me  ?      Oh  !    then    I    felt, 
As    I    had   never   felt   before,    how   mean 
Beside    one    true    affeclion    is    the    best 
Of  all    earth's    prizes,    and    how    little    worth 
The   world    would   be   without    her   love — herself ! 

But   sleep   refreshed   her,    and    next   morn    she   sat 
At   our   bright   board,    in    her   accustomed   place  ; 
And    sunlight    was    not   sweeter   than   her   smile, 
Or   cheerfuler.       My   quick   fears   died   away  ; 
And    though    I    saw   that    she    had    lost    the    fire 
Of  her   young   life,    I    comforted    myself 
With    thinking   that   it   was    the    same    with    me — 
The   sure   result   of  years. 

My   time    I    gave 
To    my    new    passion,    rioting   at    large 


236  Katltrinci 

In    the   fresh    realm    of  fancy   and   of  thought 
To    which    the   passion    bore    me,   and    from    which 
I    strove    to   gather   for   embodiment 
Material   of  art. 

The   more    I    dreamed, 

The   broader   grew    my   dream.      The   further   on 
My    footsteps    pushed,    the   brighter   grew   the    light  ; 
Till,    half  in    terror,    half    in   reverence, 
I    learned    that    I    had    broached    the    Infinite  J 
I    had    not    thought    my    Possible    could    bear 
Such   name   as    this,   or    wear   such   attribute ; 
And    shrank   befitting   distance   from    the    front 
Of  awful    secrets,    hid    in    awful   flame, 
That   scorched   and   scared    me. 

So,    more    humble   grown, 
And    less   adventurous,    I    chose,   at   last, 
My   theme   and    vehicle  of  song,   and    wrote. 
My   faculties,    grown    strong   and    keen    by    use. 
Bent   to   their   task    with    earnest   faithfulness, 
And   glowed   with    high    endeavor.      All   of  power 
I    had    within    me    flowed    into   my   hand  ; 
And    learning,    language — all    my   life's    resource — 


Kathrina  237 

Lay   close   around   my   enterprise,    and   poured 
Their   hoarded    wealth    of  imagery   and    words 
Faster   than    I    could    use    it.       For   long   weeks, 
My    ardent    labor   crowded    all    my    days, 
Invaded   sleep,    and    haunted   e'en    my   dreams: 
And    then    the    work    was   done. 

I    left    it    there, 

And   sought   for   recreative   rest   in   scenes 
That   once   had    charmed    me — in    society 
Where    I    was   welcome  :    but   the   common   talk 
Of  daily    news — of  politics   and   trade — 
Was    senseless   as   the   chatter   of  the  jays 
In    autumn   forests.      No    refreshing   balm 
Came   to   me   in    the   sympathy   cf  men. 
In    my    retirement.    I    had   left    the   world 
To   go   its   way;    and   it   had    gone   its    way, 
And   left   me   hopelessly. 

I    told    my   wife 

Of  my   dissatisfaction    and   disgust, 
But    found    small    comfort    in    her   words.       She    said : 
"  The   world   is    wide,    and   woman's   vision    short ; 
But    I    have    never   seen    a   man    who   turned 


238  Kathrina 

His    efforts    from    his    kind,    and    failed    to    spoil 
All    men    for   him — himself,    indeed,    for   them  ; 
And    he    who    gives    nor    sympathy    nor   aid 
To     the     poor      race     from     which      he     seeks     such 

boon, 

Must    be    rejoiced   if  it   be   generous  ; 
Content,    if  it   be  just.       Society 
Is  a   grand   scheme   of  service   and   return. 
We   give   and    take ;    and    he   who   gives    the   most, 
In    ways    directest,    wins    the   best   reward." 

By   purpose,    I    closed   eyes    upon   my   work 

For    many   -weeks,    resisting   every    day 

The   impulse   to  review   the   glowing   dream 

My   fancy    had   engendered :    for    I    wished 

To   go   with    faculty   and    fancy   cooled 

To   its   perusal.       I    had   strong   desire, 

So   far   as   in   me   lay,    to    see   the   work 

With    the    world's    eyes,   for   reasons — ah !    I    shrink 

From    writing   them  !      All    men    are  sometimes   weak, 

And    some  are   inconsistent   with    their  wills. 

If  I    were   one   of  these,   think   not    I    failed 

To  justify    my   weakness   to    myself, 

In    ways    that    saved    my    pride. 


Katlirma  239 

Yet    this    was   true : 

I    had   an    honest   wish    to   learn    how   far 
My    work    of  heat    had    power    to    re-inspire 
The   soul    that   wrought   it,   and    how  well    my   verse 
Had   clothed   and   kept    the   creature   of  my   thought  ; 
For   memory   still    retained   the   loveliness 
That    filled    the   fresh    conceit. 

When,    in    good    time, 

Rest   and   diversion    had    performed   their   work, 
And    the   long   fever   of  my   brain    was    gone,        ( 
I    broached   my   feast,    first    making   fast   my   door. 
That   so    no   eye   should    mark    my   greedy  joy 
Or    my    grimaces, — doubtful    of  the    fate 
That   waited   expectation. 

It   were   vain 

To    try,   in    these    tame   words,    to   paint   the   pang, 
The   faintness   and    the   chill,   which    overwhelmed 
My   disappointed    heart.       My   welded    thoughts, 
Which,    in    their   whitest   heat,    had   bent   and   bound 
My   language   to   themselves,    imparting   grace 
To   stiffest   words,    and   meanings   fresh   and    fine 
To    simplest    phrases,    interfusing    all 


240  Katliritia 

With   their   own    ardency,    and    shining   through 
With    smoothly   rounded    beauty,    lay    in    heaps 
Of  cold,    unmeaning    ugliness.       My   words 
Had   shrunk   to   old    proportions,    and    stood    out 
In    hard,    stiff  angles,   challenging   a   guess 
Of  what    they    covered. 

Meaningless    to   me, 

Who   knew   the    meaning   that   had    once    informed 
Its    faithless   numbers,    what    way    could    I    hope 
That   to   my   own,    or   any   future   age, 
My    work   should    speak   its    full    significance  ? 
My   latest   child,    begot    in    manly  joy, 
Conceived   in    purity,   and   born    in    toil, 
Lay   dead    before    me, — dead,   and   in    the    shroud 
My   hopeful    hands    had    woven   and   bedecked 
To    be    its    chrisom. 

Then    the   first    I    learned 
Where    language    finds    its    bound, — learned    that    be 

yond 

The   range   of 'human   commerce,    save   by   force, 
It   never   moves,    nor   lingers    in    the   realm 
It    thus    invades,    a   moment,    if  the    voice 


Kathriiia  241 

Of  human    commerce    speak    not    the    demand  ; — 
That    language    is    a    thing    of  use  ; — that    thought 
Which    seeks    a   revelation,    first    must    seek 
Adjustment    in    the    scale    of  human    need, 
Or    find    no    fitting    vehicle. 

And    more  : 

That   the   great    Possible    which   lies   outside 
The    range    of  commerce   is   identical 
With    the    stupendous    Infinite   of  God, 
Which    only    comes    in    glimpses,    or    in    hints 
Of  vague   significance,    so   dim,    so    vast, 
That   subtlest,    most    prehensile   language,    shrinks 
From    plucking   of  its   robes,    the    while   they   sweep 
The    perfumed    air  ! 

I    closed    my   manuscript, 

And   locked    it   in    my   desk.      Then    stealing   forth, 
I    sought    the   bustle   of  the   street,    to   drown 


242  Kathrina 

In    the    great    roar    of    careless    toil,    the    pain 

That    brings    despair.       My    last    resource    was    gone 

And   as    I    brooded    o'er   the    awful    blank 

Of  hopeless   life   that    waited   for   my   steps, 

A   fear  which    I    had   feared   to   entertain 

Found   entrance   to    my    heart,   and    held    it    still, 

Almost    to   bursting. 

Not   alone    my   life 

Was    sliding   from    me  ;    for   my   better   life, 
My   pearl    of   price,    the  jewel    in    my   crown, 
My   wife    Kathrina,   growing   lovelier 
With   every   passing   day,    arose   each    morn 
From    wasting   dreams   to   paler   loveliness, 
And   sank   in    growing   weariness    each    night, 
And   hotter  hectic,    to   her    welcome   bed. 
Her   bed  !      The    sweet,    the   precious    nuptial    bed ! 
Bed   sanctified   by   love  !    Bed    blest  of  God 
With   fruit    immortal  !      Bed    too    soon    to   be 
Crowned    with    the    glory    of  a    Christian    death ! 
Ah    God !     How    it    brought    back    the    agony, 
And    the    rebellious    hate    of  other    years — 
The    hopeless    struggle    of  my    will    with    Him 
Whose    will    is    ln\\  ! 


Kathrina  243 

Thus    torn    with    mingled    thoughts 
Of  fear,    despair,    and    spite,    I    wore    away 
Miles    of  wild    wandering   about    the    streets 
Till    weariness    at   last   compelled    my    feet 
To    drag    me    to    my    home. 

Before   my   door 

Stood   the   familiar   chair   of'  one    whose    call 
Was  ominous    of  ill.       My   heart   grew    sick 
With    flutter   of  foreboding    and    foredoom  ; 
But    in    swift   silence    I    flew    up    the    steps, 


And,    blind    with    stifled    frenzy,    reached    the    side 
Of  my   poor   wife.       She    smiled    at    seeing   me. 
But    I    could    only    kneel,    and    bathe    her    hands 


244  Kathrina 

With    tears    and    kisses.       In    her   gentle    breast- 
True   home   of  love,   and    love   and    home    to    me — 
The   blood    had    burst   its    walls,   and    flowed    in    flame 
From    lips    it    left    in    ashes. 

In    her   smile 

Of  perfecl   trustfulness,    I    caught    first   glimpse 
Of  that   aureola   of  fadeless    light 
Which    spans    my   lonely   couch,    and   kindles    hope 
That   when    my    time   shall    come    to   follow   her, 
My    spirit    may   go   out,    enwreathed   and    wrapped 
By.  the   familiar   glory,    which    to-night 
Shall    brood    o'er   all    my   vigils    and    my   dreams ! 


DESPAIR 


AH  !   what  is  so  dead  as  a  perished  delight ! 

Or  a  passion  outlived  !    or  a  scheme  overthrown  ! 
Save  the  bankrupt  heart  it  has  left  in  its  flight, 

Still  as  quick  as  the  eye,  but  as  cold  as  a  stone  ! 

The  honey-bee  hoards  for  its  winter-long  need, 
The  treasure  it  gathers  in  joy  from  the  flowers  ; 

And  drinks  in  each  sip  of  its  silvery  mead 

The  flavor  and  flush  of  the  sweet  summer  hours. 

But  a  pleasure  expires  at  its  earliest  breath  : 
No  labor  can  hoard  it,  no  cunning  can    save  ; 

For  the  song  of  its  life  is  the  sigh  of  its  death, 

And    the  sense  it  has    thrilled    is  its    shroud  and  its 
grave. 


246  Kittliriua 

Ah  !    what  is  our  love,  with  its  tincture  of   lust, 

And  its  pleasure  that  pains  us  and  pain  that  endears, 
•  But  joy  in  an  armful  of  beautiful  dust 

That  crumbles,  and  flies  on  the  wings  of  the  years  ? 

And  what  is  ambition  for  glory  and  power, 
But  desire  to  be  reckoned  the  uppermost  fool 

Of  a  million  of  fools,  for  a  pitiful  hour, 

And  be  cursed  for  a  tyrant,  or  kicked  for  a  tool  ? 

Nay,  what  is  the  noblest  that  art  can  achieve, 
But  to  conjure  a  vision  of  light  to  the  eyes, 

That  will  pale  ere  we  paint  it,  and  pall  ere  we  leave 
On  the  heart  it  betrays  and  the  hand  it  defies  ? 

We  love,  and  we  long  with  an  infinite  greed 

For  a  love  that  will  fill  our  deep  longing,  in  vain  : 

The  cup  that  we  drink  of  is  pleasant,  indeed, 
Yet  it  holds  but  a  drop  of  the  heavenly  rain. 

We  plan  for  our  powers  the  divinest  we  can  ; 

We  do  with  our  powers  the  supremest  we  may  ; 
And,  winning  or  losing,  for  labor  and  plan 

The  best  that  we  garner  is — rest  and  decay ! 


Kat fir  ina  247 

Content — satisiaclion — who  wins  them  ?      Look  down  ! 

They  are  held  without  thought  by  the  dolts  and  the 

drones  : 
'  Fis  the  slave  who  in  carelessness  carries  the  crown  ; 

And  the  hovels  have  kinglier  men  than  the  thrones. 

The  maid  sings  of  love  to  the  hum  of  her  wheel  ; 

And  her  lover  responds  as  he  follows  his  team  ; 
They  wed,  and  their  children  come  quickly  to  seal 

In  fulfilment  the  pledge  of  their  loftiest  dream. 

With  humblest  ambitions  and  homeliest  fare, 
Contented,  though  toiling,  they  travel  abreast, 

Till  the  kind  hand  of*  death  lifts  their  burden  of  care. 
And  they  sink,  in  the  faith  of  their  fathers,  to  rest. 

Did  I  beg  to  be  born  ?      Did  I  seek  to  exist  ? 

Did  I   bargain  for  promptings  to  loftier  gains  ? 
Did  I  ask  for  a  brain,  with  contempt  of  the  fist 

That  could  win  a  reward  for  its  labor  and  pains  ? 

Was    it    kind — the    strong    promise    that    girded     my 

youth  ? 
Was  it  good — the  endowment  of  motive  and  skill  ? 


248  Katlirina 

Was  it  well  to  succeed,  when  success  was,   in  truth, 
But  the  saddest  of  failure  ?     Make  answer,  who  will  ! 

Do  I  rave  without  reason  ?      Why,  look  you,  I  pray  ! 

I  have  won  all  I  sought  of  the  highest  and  best  ; 
But  it  brings  me  no  guerdon  ;    and  hopeless,  to-day, 

I  am  poorer  than  when  I  set  out  on  the  quest. 

Oh  !  emptiness  !  Life,  what  art  thou  but  a  lie, 

Which  I  greeted  and  honored  with  hopefulest  trust  ? 

Pah  !  the  beautiful  apples  that  tempted  my  eye 
Break  dead  on  my  tongue  into  ashes  and  dust  ! 

"  A  Father  who  loves  all  the  children  of  men  "  ? 

"  A  future  to  fill  all  these  bottomless  gaps  "  ? 
But  one  life  has  failed  :   can  I  fasten  again 

With  my  faith  and  my  hope  to  a  specious  Perhaps  ? 

O !    man  who  begot  me  !      O  !    woman  who  bore  ! 

Why,  why  did  you  call  me  to  being  and  breath  ? 
With  ruin  behind  me,  and    darkness  before, 

I  have  nothing  to  long  for,,  or  live  for,  but  death! 


K  A  T  H  R  I  X  A 


PART    IV 


CONSUMM A  TI O  N 


PART     IV 


CONSUMMATION 


A    GUEST    was    in    my    house -a   guest    unhid — 

Who    stayed    without    a    welcome    from    his    host  ; — 

So    loathed    and    hated,  on    such    errand    bent, 

And    armed    with    such    resistless    power   of  ill, 

I    dared    not    look    him    in    the    face.      I    heard 

His    tireless    footsteps    in    the    lonely    halls, 

In    the   chill    hours    ot    night  ;    and,    in    the   day, 

They  climbed  the  stairs,  or  loitered  through  the  rooms 

With    lawless    freedom.      Ever    when    I    turned 

1    caught    a    glimpse    of  him.       His    shadow    stalked 

Between    me    and    the    light,   and    fled    before 

My   restless    feet,   or   followed    close    behind. 


252 


Kathrina 


Whene'er    I    bent    above    the    couch    that    held 
My    fading    wife,  though    looking    not,    I    knew 
That    he    was    bending    from    the    other    side, 
And    mocking    me. 


Katkrina  253 

Familiar   grown,    at    last, 

He   came    more   closely — came    and    sat    with    me 
Through    hours    of  revery ;    or,   as    I    paced 
My    dimly-lighted    room,  slipped    his    lank   arm 
Through    mine,  and    whispered    in    nly   shrinking   ear 
Such    fearful    words   as    made   me   sick   and   cold. 
He    took    the    vacant    station    at    my   board, 
Sitting   where    she   had    sat,  and    mixed   my   cup 
With    poisoned    waters,   saying   in    low   tones 
That    none   but    me   could    hear : 

"  This    little    room, 

Where  you  have  breakfasted  and  dined  and  supped, 
And    laughed    and    chatted    in    the    days    gone    by, 
Will    be   a   lonely    place    when    we   are   gone. 
Those   roses   at    the   window,  that    were    wont 
To    bloom    so   freely   with    the   lady's   care, 
Already   miss    her   touch.      That    ivy-vine 
Has    grown    a    yard    since    it    was    tied,    and    needs 
A    training    hand." 

Rising    with    bitter    tears 
To    flee    his    presence,   he   arose   with    me, 
And    wandered    through    the    rooms. 


254  Kathrina 

"  This    casket   here  " — 

I    heard   him    say :    "  Suppose    we   loose    the   clasp. 
These   are    her  jewels — pretty   gifts    of  yours. 
There    is    a   diamond :    there    a    string    of  pearls. 
That    paly   opal    holds    a   mellowed    fire 
Which    minds    me   of  the   mistress,  whose  bright  soul 
Glows    through    the   lucent   whiteness   of  her   face 
With    lambent    flicker.      These   are   legacies  : 
She   will   not   wear   them    more.     Her  taste  and   mine 
Are   one   in   this,   that   both   of  us   love    flowers.  • 
Ay,   she   shall   have   them,   too,    some    pleasant   day, 
When   she   goes   forth   with    me ! 

"  So  ?    what    is    this  ? 

Her   wardrobe !      Let    the   door   be   opened    wide 
This   musk,    so   blent   with    scent   of  violets, 
Revives   one.      You   remember   when    she   wore 
That   lavender  ? — a   very   pretty   silk  ! 
Here   is    a   moire  antique.      Ah  !   yes — I    see  ! 
You    did    not    like    her    in    it.      'Twas    too    old, 
And   too   suggestive   of  the   dowager. 
There   is   your   favorite — that   glossy    blue — 
The    sweet    tint    stolen    from    the   skies    of  June — 
But    she    is    done    with    it.      I    wonder    who 


Katkrina 


255 


Will    wear    it,   when    your   grief  shall    find    a    pause ! 
Your   daughter — possibly  ?    .    .    .    You    shiver,   sir ! 
Is    it    the   velvet  ?      Like   a   pall,   you   think ! 
Well,    close   the   door ! 

"  Those   slippers    on    the   rug : 

The   time   will    come   when   you   will   kiss    their    soles 
For  the  dear  life  that  pressed  them.     Their  rosettes 
Will   be   more    redolent   than    roses    then. 
You  did   not   know   how   much   you  loved  your  wife  ? 
I    thought   so  ! 

"  This   way  !      Let    us   take   our   stand 
Beside   her   bed.      Not   quite    so   beautiful 
To   your   fond   eyes   as    when    she   was   a   bride, 
Though    still   a   lovely   woman !      Seems   it   strange 
That    she   is   yours    no    longer  ? — -that    her   hand 
Is   given    to   another — to    the   one 
For   whom    she   has   been    waiting   all   her   life, 
And    ready    all    her   life  ?      Your    power    is    gone 
To    punish    rivals.       There    you    stand    and    weep, 
But   dare    not   lift   a   finger,    while    with    smiles 
And    kindly   welcome    she    extends    her   hands 
To   greet    her   long-expected    friend.      She   knows 


256  Kallirina 

Where    I    will    take    her — to    what    city    of  God, 
What    palace    there,    and    what   companionship. 
She    knows    what    robes    will    drape    her    loveliness, 
What    flowers    bedeck    her    hair,    and    rise    and    fall 
Upon    the   pulses    of  her    happy    breast. 
And    you,    poor    man  !    with   all    your  jealous    pride, 
Have   learned   that   she   would    turn    again    to   you, 
And    to   your   food    and    furniture    of  life, 
With    disappointment. 

"  Ay,    she    pities    you — 

Loves    you,   indeed  ;    but   there   is    One   she   loves 
With    holier   passion,    and    with    more    entire 
And    gladder    self-surrender.       She    will    go — 
You   know   that   she  will   go — and   go    with  joy  ; 
And   you    begin    to   see   how   poor   and    mean, 
When    placed   beside    her  joy,   are   all   your   gifts, 
And   all    that   you   have   won    by    them. 

"  Poor  man  ! 

Weeping   again !      Well,    if  it   comfort   you. 
Rain    your   salt    tears    upon   her   waxen   hands, 
And    kiss    them    dry    at    leisure  !       Press    her    lips, 
Hot   with    the   hectic  !      Lay   your   cold,    wet    cheek 


Kathrina  257 

Against   the   burning   scarlet   of  her   own  : 
Only   remember   that   she   is    not   yours, 
And    that   your   paroxysms    of  grief  and    tears 
Are   painful    to   her." 

Ah  !    to    wait   for   death  ! 
To   see   one's   idol   with    the   signature 
Of  the    Destroyer   stamped   upon    her   brow, 
And   know   that    she    is    doomed,    beyond   all    hope  ; 
To   watch    her   while    she    fades  ;    to   see   the   form 
That   once    was    Beauty's    own    become   a   corpse 
In    all   but   breathing,    and    to    meet   her   eyes 
A    hundred    times   a    day — while    the    heart    bleeds — 
With    smiles    of  smooth    dissembling,  and   with    words 
Cheerful   as    morning,   and   to   do   all    this 
Through  weeks  and    weary  months,  till  one  half  longs 
To    see    the    spell    dissolved,    and   feel    the   worst 
That   death    can   do  :    can    there   be    misery 
Sadder    than    this  ? 

My   time    I    passed   alone, 
And    at    the    bedside   of  my   dying    wife. 
She    talked    of  death   as    children    talk   of  sleep, 
When— a   forgetful    blank — it   lies    between 


258  Kat/irina 

Their    glad    impatience    and    a    holiday. 

The    morrow — ah  !    the    morrow  !      That    was    name 

For    hope    all    realized,   for    work    all    done, 

For    pain    all    past,   for    life    and    strength    renewed, 

For   fruitage   of  endeavor,   for   repose, 

For    heaven  ! 

What   would    the   morrow    bring   to    me  ? 
The   morrow — ah !    the    morrow  !      It   was    blank — 
Nay,  blank  and  black  with  gloom  of  clouds  and  night. 
Never   before   had    I    so   realized 
My   helplessness.      I    could    not   find    relief 
In    love   or   labor.      I    could   only   sit, 
And   gaze   against   a   wall,    without   the   power 
To   pierce   or   climb.      My   pride   of  life   was    gone, 
My   spirit   broken,   and    my    strife   with    God 
Was   finished.      If  I    could   not   look   before, 
I    dared   not   look   above  ;    and    so,  whene'er 
I    could   forget   the   present,   I    went   back 
Upon    the   past. 

One   soft   June   day,   my   thoughts, 
Touched  by  some  song  of  bird,  or  glimpse  of  green, 
Returned    to   life's    bright    morning,    and    the   Junes 


Kathrina 


259 


That    flooded    with    their    wealth    of  life    and    song 
The  valley  of  my  birth.      Again  I   walked  the  meads, 
Brilliant   with    beaded   grass,   and    heard    the   shrill, 
Sweet  jargon    of  the   meadow-birds.      Again 


I    trod   the   forest   paths,  in    shade   of  trees 

With    foliage   so   tender   that    the    sun 

Shot    through    the    soft,    thin   leaves   its    virid    sheen, 


260  Kathrina 

As    through    the   emerald   waters   of  the   sea. 

The   scarlet    tanager — a   flake   of  fire, 

Blown   from    the    tropic    heats    upon    the   breath 

That   brought    the   summer — caught    upon    a   twig, 

Or   quenched   its   glow    in    some   remote   recess. 

The    springing   ferns    unfolded   at    my   feet 

Their   tan-brown    scrolls ;    the   tiny   star-flower   shone 

Among   its   leaves ;    the   insects    filled   the   air 

With   a   monotonous,  reedy   resonance 

Of  whir   and   hum,  and    I    sat   down    again 

Upon    a   bank,  to   gather   violets. 

From   dreams   of  retrospective  joy    I    woke 

At   last,    to    the   quick    tinkle   of  a   bell. 

My    wife   had    touched   it.      She   had   been    asleep, 

And,   waking,  called    me    to   her    side.      The   note, 

Familiar   as    the    murmur   of  her   voice, 

For   the   first   time   was    strange.      Another   bell, 

With   other   music,  rang   adown    the   years 

That   lay   between    me   and    the   golden    day 

When,  up   the    mountain-path,  I    followed    far 

The   lamb   that   bore   it.      All    the   scene   came    back 

In   a   broad    flash  ;    and   with    it   came    the    same 

Strange   apprehension    of  a   mighty   change— 


Kathrina  261 

A    vague   prevision   of  transition,   born 

Of  what,    I    knew   not  ;   on    what   errand   sent, 

I    could    not   guess. 

I    rose   upon   my   feet, 

Responsive   to    the   summons,   when    I    heard, 
Repeated   in    the   ear   of  memory, 
The   words   my   mother   spoke   to   me   that   day : 

"  My    Paul   has   climbed   the   noblest    mountain-height 

"In   all    his   little   world,   and   gazed   on   scenes 

"  As   beautiful   as   rest   beneath    the   sun. 

"  I    trust    he   will    remember   all    his   life 

"  That,   to   his   best   achievement,   and   the   spot 

"  Closest   to   heaven   his   youthful   feet   have   trod, 

"  He   has   been    guided    by   a   guileless   lamb. 

"  It    is   an    omen    which  his    mother's   heart 

"  Will   treasure   with   her  jewels." 

Had    her   tongue 

Been    moved   to   prophecy  ?      Omen   of  what  ?— 
Of  a    new   height   of  life   to   be   achieved 
By   my   lamb's   leading  ?      Ay,   it   seemed   like   this ! 
An    answer   to   a   thousand   prayers,    up-breathed 


262  Kathrina 

By   her   whom    I    had   lost,    repeated   long 

By   her   whom    I    was   losing  ?      Was    it   this  ? 

Thus   charged   with   premonition,    when    I    stepped 

Into    the   shaded   room    my   cheeks    were   pale, 

And   every   nerve    was    quivering    with   the    stress 

Of  uncontrolled   emotion.      Ah  !    my   lamb  ! 

How   white !       How   innocent  !      My   lamb,  my   lamb  ! 

Even   the   scarlet    ribbon   which   adorned 

The   lambkin  of  my   chase   was    at    her   throat, 

Repeated    in    a   bright    geranium-flower ! 

"  Loop   up   the   curtains,   love  !      Let    in    the   light  !  " 
The   words   came   strong   and   sweet,   as    if  the   life 
From    which   they   breathed    were   at   its   tidal  flood. 
"Oh!    blessed   light!"    she   added,    as    the   sun        t 
Flamed   on   the   velvet   roses   of  the    floor, 
And   touched   to   life    the   pictures    on   the    wall, 
And    smote   the   dusk   with   bars    of  amber. 

"  Paul ! " 

I    turned   to   answer,   and    beheld   a   face 
That   glowed   with   a   celestial    fire   like   his 
Who   talked   with    God    in   Sinai. 


Kathrina 


263 


"  Paul,"    she   said, 

"  I    have   been   almost   home.      I    may   not   tell, 
For   language    cannot   paint,   what    I    have   seen. 
The   veil   was    very   thin,   and   I    so   near, 
I    caught    the   sheen    of  multitudes,   and   heard 


Voices   that   called   and   answered    from   afar 
Through    spaces    inconceivable,    and   songs 
Whose   harmonies    responsive    surged    and   sank 
On    the   attenuate   air,    till   all    my   soul 
Was   thrilled   and   filled    with    music,   and    I    prayed 
To   be   let   loose,    that    I    might   cast   myself 
Upon    the    mighty   tides,    and   give   my   life 
To    the    supernal    raptures.      Ay,    I    prayed 


264  Kathrina 

That   death    might   come,   and    give   me   my    release 
From    this   poor   clay,   and    that    I    might    be   born 
By    its   last    travail   into   life." 

"  Dear   wife, 

You   have   been   wildly   dreaming,   and   your   brain, 
Quickened   to   strange   vagaries   by   disease, 
Has    cheated   you,"    I    said.    "  Talk   not   like   this : 
'Twill   harm    you.       I    will   hold   your   hand    a   while, 
And   you   shall   have   repose." 

She   smiled    and    said, 

While   her   eyes   shone   with    an    unearthly    light  : 
"  You    are   not   wise,   my   dear,   in   things   like   these. 
The   vision    was    as   real   as   yourself; 
And   it   will    not   be   long   before    I    go 
To   mingle   in   the   life   that    I    have   seen. 
I    know   it,    dearest,   for    she    told   me   this." 

"  She  told   you    this  ?  "    I    said, — "  Who   told   you  this  ? 
Did    you   hold   converse   with    the   multitude  ? " 

"  Not   with    the    multitude,"    she   answered    me  ; 

"  But    while    I    gazed    upon    the   throng,    and   prayed 


Kathrina  265 

That   death    might   loose    me,  there   appeared   a  group 
Of  radiant    ones    behind   the   filmy   veil 
That   hung   between    us,    looking    helplessly 
Upon    my   struggle,   but   with    eyes    that   beamed 
With   love   ineffable.      I    knew    them    too — 
Knew   all   of  them    but   one — and    she   the   first, 
And   sweetest   of  them   all.      Pure   as    the   lisht, 

O         * 

And    beautiful    as    morning,    she   advanced  ; 
And   at   her   touch   the   veil   was    parted  .wide, 
While  she  passed  through,  and  stood  beside  my   bed. 
She   took   my  hand,    she   kissed   my   burning   cheek, 
And    then,    in    words    that   calmed   my   spirit,   said : 

"  Your  prayer  will   soon  be  answered  ;  but  one  prayer, 
Breathed    many   years   by   you,   and    many   years 
By   one   you   know   not,    must   be   answered    first. 
You    must   go   back,    though    for   a   little   time, 
And   reap   the   harvest   of  a   life.      To   him 
Whom    you    and    I   have  loved,    say   all   your   heart 
Shall    move   your   lips    to   speak,   and    he    will    hear. 
The    strength,    the   boldness,    the   persuasive   power 
Which    you    may   need    for   this,    shall    all   be   yours  ; 
For  you    shall    have    the    ministry   of  those 
Whom    you    have   seen.       Speak   as   a   dying   wife 


34 


266  Kathrina 

Has   liberty   to   speak   to    him    she   leaves  ; 

And    tell   him    this — that   he    may   know    the   voice 

That   gives   you   your   commission — tell   him    this  : 

The   lamb   has    slipped    the   leash    by  which    his    hand 

Held    her   in   thrall,   and   seeks   the    mountain-height  ; 

And   he,    if   he   reclaim    her   to   his   grasp, 

Must   follow   where   she   leads,   and   kneel    at   last 

Upon    the    summit    by   her   side.      And   more  : 

Give    him    my   promise    that   if  he   do   this, 

He   shall   receive   from    that   fair   altitude 

Such   vision    of  the   realm    that   lies   around, 

Cleft   by   the   river   of  immortal   life, 

As   shall   so   lift    him    from    his   selfishness, 

And   so   enlarge   his   soul,    that   he   shall   stand 

Redeemed   from    all    unworthiness,   and   saved 

To    happiness   and   heaven." 

Her   words   flowed   forth 

With   the   strong   utterance,   in    truth,   of  one 
Inspired   from   other   worlds  ;    while,   pale   and   faint, 
I   drank   her   revelations.       Unbelief 
Had   given   the   lie   to   her   abounding   faith, 
And   held   her  vision   figment   of  disease, 
Until   the   message   of  my   mother  fell 


Kathrina  267 

Upon    my   ears.      Then,    overcome,    I    wept 

With   deep   convulsions,    rose   and   walked    the  room, 

Wrung    my   clasped    hands,   and    cried    with    choking 

voice, 
"My   mother!    O!    my    mother!" 

"  Gently,  love ! 

For   she   is    with   you,"    said    my   dying   wife. 
'•  Nay,   all   of  them   are   with    us.      This   small   room 
Is    now   the   gate   of  heaven  ;    and   you   must   do 
That    which    befits    the   presence   and   the   place. 
Come !    sit   beside    me  ;    for   my    time   is   short, 
And    I    have    much    to   say.      What   will   you   do 
When    I    am   gone  ?      Will    the   old    life   of  art 
Content   you  ?      Will   you    fill    your   waiting   time 
With    the   old   dreams   of  fame  and   excellence?" 

"  Alas  ! "    I    answered,    "  I   am   done   with    life  : 
My   life   is    dead  ;    and    though    my   hand   has   won 
All   it   has    striven    to   win,   and   all   my   heart 
In    its   weak   pride   has   prompted   it   to   seek 
Of  love   and   honor ;    though   success   is    mine 
In    all   my   eager   enterprise,    I    know 
My   life   has   been    a   failure.      I   am   left, 


268  Kathrina 

Or   shall   be   left,    when   you,    my    love,   are   gone, 
Without   resource — a   hopeless,    worthless    man, 
Longing   to   hide   his    shame   and    his   despair 
Within    the   grave." 

"  I    thank   thee,    Lord  !  "    she   said : 
"  So    many  prayers    are   answered  i   .    .    .    .    You   knew 

not 

That    I    had   asked   for   this.      You   did    not   know, 
When   you   were   striving   with   your   feeble    might 
For   the   great   prizes    that   beguiled   your   pride, 
That   at   the    hand    of  Gcd    I    begged   success. 
Ay,    Paul,    I    prayed    that   you    might   gather   all 
The   gcccl    that   you   have   won,   and   that,   at   last, 
You     might     be     brought     to     know     the     worthless- 
ness 

Of  every   selfish    meed,   and    feel   how   weak — 
How   worse   than    helpless — is    the   highest   man 
Who   lives    within,    and   labors    to,    himself. 
Not   one   of   all   the   prizes   you   have   gained 
Contains    the   good    that   lies   in   your   despair." 

"  Teach    me,"    I    said,    "  for   I    am    ignorant  ; 
Lead   me,   for   I   am   blind.      Explain   the   past, 


Kathrina  269 

With   all    its    errors.      Why   am    I    so   low, 
And    you    so    high  ? " 

She   pressed    my   hand,    and    said  : 
"  You   have   been    hungry   all   your   life   for   God, 
And    known    it    not.      You   lavished   first   on    me 
Your    heart's    best    love.      You    poured    its    treasured 

wealth 

At    an    unworthy   shrine.      You    made   a   God 
Of  poor    mortality  ;    and    when    you   learned 
Your   love    was    greater  than    the   one   you   loved — 
The   one   you   worshipped — you   invoked    the   aid 
Of  your    imagination,    to    enrich 
Your   pampered    iclcl,    till   at   last   you   bowed 
Before   a   creature   of  your   thought.      You   stole 
From    excellence   divine   the   grace   and    good 
That   made   me    worshipful  ;    and   even   these 
Palled      on      your      heart      at      last,     and     ceased     to 

yield 

The   inspiration    that   you   craved.      You   pined, 
You   starved   for   something   infinitely   sweet  ; 
And    still    you   sought   it   blindly,   wilfully 
In   your   poor   wife, — sought   it,    and   found    it   not, 
Through    wasted   years   of  life. 


2  jo  Kathrina 

"  And    then    you    craved 

An    infinite    return.       You    asked    for    more 
Than    I    could   give,    although    I    gave    you   all 
That   woman    can   bestow   on    man.      You   knew 
You   held    my   constant   love,    unlimited 
Save    by    the    bounds    of  mortal    tenderness  ; 
And    still   you    longed    for    more.       Then    sprang    your 

scheme 

For    finding   in    the    love    of  multitudes, 
And    in    their    praise,    that    which    had    failed    in    me. 
You   wrote   for   love   and   fame,    and   won    them    both 
By   manly   striving — won   and   wore   them   long. 
All   good   there   is   in    love   and   praise   of  men, 
You    garnered    in    your  life.       On    this    reward 
You   lived   till   you   were    sated,    or   until 
You   learned   it    bore    no  satisfying    meed — 
Learned   that   the   love   of  many    was    not    more 
Than   love   of  one.      With   all    my   love   your   own, 
With   love   and   praise   of  men,   your   famished   soul 
Craved   infinite   approval — craved   a   love 
Beyond    the   love   of  woman    and   of  man. 

"  Then,    with    new   hope,   you   apotheosized 
Your   cherished   art,    and    sought   for   excellence 


Kat/irina  2  7  i 

And    for   your   own    approval  ;    with    what    end, 

Your   helplessness   informs    me.       You   essayed 

The   revelation    of  the   mighty   forms 

That   dwell    in    the    unrealized.       You   sought 

To   shape   your   best   ideals,    and   to    find 

In    the   grand   scheme   your   motive   and   reward. 

All    this    blind    reaching   after   excellence, 

Was    but   the   reaching   of  your   soul   for   God. 

Imagination    could   not  touch   the   height  ; 

And   you    were   baffled.      So,   you   failed   to   find 

The   God   your   spirit   yearned   for   in   your   art, 

And   failed   of  self-approval. 

"  You    have    now 

But   one   resource, — you   are   shut    up   to    this  : 
You    must    bow    down    and    worship    God ;    and    give 
Your   heart   to    Him,   accept    His   love   for   you, 
And    feast   your   soul   on   excellence   in    Him. 
So,   a   new   life   shall   open    to   your   feet, 
Strown    richly   with    rewards ;    and    when    your   steps 
Shall   reach    the   river,    I    will   wait   for   you 
Upon   the   other   shore,    and   we    shall    be 
One   in    the   life   immortal,   as   in    this. 
O  !  .  Paul  !    your   time   is   now.       I    cannot   die 


272  Katlirina 

And    leave   you    comfortless.       I    cannot    die, 
And    enter    on    the    pleasures    that    I    know 
Await   me   yonder,    with   the   consciousness 
That   you   are   still    unhappy." 

All   my   life 

Thus    lay    revealed    in    light    which    she    had    poured 
Upon    its    track.      I    learned   where    she   had    found 
Her   peaceful  joy,   her   satisfying   good, 
And    where,    in    my    rebellious    pride    of  heart, 
Mine    had   been    lost.       She,    by   an    instinct    sure, 
Or   by   the   grace   of  Heaven,    had    in    her  youth 
Though    sorely   chastened,    given    herself  to    God ; 
And    through   a   life   of  saintly   purity — 
A   life   of  love    to   me   and    love   to   all — 
Had   feasted   at   the    Fountain    of  all   love, 
Had    worshipped   at   the    Excellence    Divine, 
And   only   waited    for   my   last   adieu 
To   take   her   crown. 

I    sat   like   one    struck    dumb. 
I    knew   not   how   to    speak,    or   what    to  do. 
She   looked    at   me    expectant  ;    while   a    thrill 
Of  terror   shot   through    all    my   frame. 


Kathrina  273 

"  Alas  ! " 
She    said,    "  I    thought    you    would    be   ready    now." 

At    this,    the    door    was    opened    silently, 

And    our    clear   daughter    stood    within    the    room. 

Alarmed    at   vision    of  the   sudden    change 

That   death    had    wrought    upon    her   mother's   face, 

She    hastened    to    her    side,    and    kneeling   there, 

Bowed    on    her    breast    with    tears    and    choking    sobs, 

Her   heart    too    full    for    speech. 

"  Be   silent,   dear  ! " 

The    dying    mother    said,    resting    her    hand 
Upon    her   daughter's    head.       "Be    silent,    dear! 
Your    father    kneels    to    pray.       Make    room    for    him, 
That   he   may   kneel   beside   you." 

At   her   words, 

I    was    endowed    with    apprehensions    new  ; 
And    somewhere    in    my    quickened    consciousness, 
I    felt    the   presence   of  her   heavenly   friends, 
And    knew    that    there    were    spirits    in    the    room. 
I    did    not    doubt,    nor    have    I    doubted    since, 

That   there    were    loving    witnesses    of  all 

35 


274  KatJirina 

The    scenes    enacted    round    that    hallowed    bed. 
Ay,    and    they   spoke.       Deep   in    the    innermost 
I    heard    the   tender   words,    "  O !    kneel,    my    son  ! — 
A    sweet    monition    from    my    mother's    lips. 

"Kneel!    kneel!"      It   was    the    echo   of  a    throng. 

"  Kneel !    kneel  ! "      The   gentle   mandate   reached    my 

heart 

From   depths   of  lofty   space.      It   was    the   voice 
Of  the     Good    Father. 

From    the   curtain    folds, 
That   rustled   at   the   window,    in    the  airs 
That    moved    with    conscious    pulse   to   passing    wings, 
Came   the   same   burden — "Kneel!" 

"  Kneel  !    kneel  !      O  !    kneel  !  " 
In    tones   of  earnest    pleading,    came    from    lips 
Already   pinched   by   death. 

A    hundred    worlds, 

Imposed   upon    my   shoulders,    had    not   bowed 
And   crushed   me    to    my   knees    with    surer    power. 


Kathrina  275 

The    hand    that   lay   upon    my   daughter's    head 
Then   passed  to   mine  ;    but  still   my  lips  were  dumb. 

"  Pray   '     said    the   spirit   of  my   mother. 

M  Pray  ! " 
The    word,   repeated,    came   from    many   lips. 

"  Pray ! "    said    the   voice   of  God   within   my   soul  ; 
While    every    whisper   of  the   living   air 
Echoed   the   low   command. 

"  Pray  !    pray  !    O  !    pray  !  " 
My    dying    wife   entreated. 

Words    were   given, 

And    I    poured   out   like   water   all    my   heart. 
"  O !    God  ! "    I    said,    "  be    merciful    to   me, 
A    reprobate :      I    have   blasphemed   Thy   name, 
Abused    Thy    patient   love,    and    held    from    Thee 
My   heart    and    life  ;    and    now,    in    my   extreme 
Of  need   and   of  despair,    I   come   to   Thee 
O !    cast    me    not   away,    for   here,   at   last, 
After   a   life   of  selfishness   and   sin, 


276  Kathrina 

I    yield    my    will    to    Thine,    and    pledge    my    soul — 

All    that    I    am,    all    I    can    ever    be — 

Supremely   to   Thy   service.      I    renounce 

All    worldly   aims,   all   selfish    enterprise, 

And   dedicate   the   remnant   of  my   power 

To   Thee   and    those   Thou   lovest.      Comfort    me  ! 

0  !    come   and   comfort   me,    for    I    despair ! 

Give   me   Thy   peace,   for    I    am    rent   and    tossed  ! 
Feed   me   with   love,    else    I    shall   die   of  want  ! 
Behold  !    I    empty   out   my   worthlessness, 
And   beg   Thee   to   come    in,   and    fill   my   soul 
With    Thy   rich   presence.      I    adore   Thy   love  ; 

1  seek   for   Thy   approval  ;    I    bow   down 
And    worship   Thee,    the    Excellence    Supreme. 
I've   tasted   of   the    sweetest    that   the    world 
Can    give    to    me  ;    and   human    love   and    praise, 
And   all    of  excellence    within    the   scope 

Of  my    conception,    and    my   power    to   reach 

And    realize    in    highest    forms    of  art,    . 

Have   left   me   hungry,  thirsty   for   Thyself. 

O  !    feed   and    fire   me !      Fill   and   furnish    me ! 

And   if  Thou   hast   for   me   some   humble   task—  • 

Some   service   for   Thyself,    or   for   Thy   own — 

Reveal    it    to    Thy   sad,    repentant   child, 


Kathrina  277 

Or    use    him    as    Thy    willing    instrument. 
I    ask    it    tor    the    sake    of  Jesus    Christ. 
Henceforth    my    Master  !  " 

Multitudes,    it   seemed, 

Responded    with    "  Amen ! "    as    if  the    word 
Were   caught    from    mortal   lips    by    swooping   choirs 
Of  spirits    ministrant,    and    borne    away 
In    sweet   reverberations   into   space. 

I    raised    my    head   at   last,   and   met    the   eyes 
Bright   with    the   light    of  death,  and    with    the   dawn 
Of  opening   heaven.      The    smile   that   overspread 
The    fading   features    was    the   peaceful   smile 
Of  an    immortal, — full   of  faith   and   love, — 
A    satisfied,    triumphant,    shining   smile, 
Lit    by    the   heavenly   glory. 

"  Paul,"    she    said, 

•  My   work    is   clone  :    but    you    will    live   and   work 
These    many   years.      Your   life    is   just   begun,— 
Too    late,    but   well    begun  ;    and    you    are   mine, 
Now   and   for   evermore.  .  .  .  Dear   Lord!    my   thanks 
For    this    Thv   crowning   blessing  ! " 


278  Kathrina 

Then    she    paused, 

And    raised    her    eyes    in    a   seraphic    trance, 
And    lifted    her    thin    fingers,    that    were    thrill 
With    tremulous    motion,    like    the   slender   spray 
On    which    a    throbbing    song-bird    clings,    and    pours 
His    sweet   incontinence  of  ecstasy ; 
And   then    in   broken    whispers   said   to   me  : 
"  Do  you  not  hear  them  ?     They  have  caught  the  news  ; 
And    all    the    sky    is    ringing    with    their    song 
Of  gladness    and    of   welcome.      '  Paul  is   saved ! 
Paid  is   redeemed  and  saved ! '     I    hear    them    cry  ; 
And    myriad    voices    catch    the    new    delight, 
And   carry   the   acclaim,    till   heaven   itself 
Sends   back   the    happy   echo  :    '  Paul  is   saved ! '  ' 

She  stretched  her  hands,  and  took  me  to  her  breast. 
I    kissed    her,    blessed   her,    spoke    my   last   adieu, 
And   yielded   place    to    her   whom    God   had   given 
To   be   our   child.      After   a   long   embrace, 
She   whispered  :    "  I    am   weary  ;    let   me    sleep  ! " 

She   passed    to   peaceful    slumber   like   a   child, 

The   while   attendant   angels    built   the   dream 

On    which    she    rode    to    heaven.       Not    once    again 


Kaihrina 


She   spoke    to    mortal    ears,    but   slept   and    smiled, 
And    slept   and    smiled   again,    till   daylight   passed. 
The  night  came  down  ;    the  long   hours  lapsed   away ; 
The   city   sounds   grew   fainter,   till   at   last 
We   sat   alone   with    silence   and    with   death. 
At    the    first    blush    of  morning    she    looked    up, 
And    spoke,    but   not   to   us  :      "  I'm    coming   now ! " 


I    sought    the    window,    to    relieve    the    pain 
Of  long   suppressed   emotion.      In    the    East, 
Tinged    with    the    golden   dawn,    the   morning    star 
Was    blazing    in    its    glory,    while    beneath, 
The    slender    moon,    at    its    last    rising,    hung, 
Paling    and    dying   in    the    growing   light, 


280  Kat/irina 

And    passing    with    that    leading    up    to    heaven. 
My    daughter    stood    beside    her    mother's    bed, 
But    I    had    better    vision    of  the    scene 
In    the    sweet    symbol    God    had    hung    fur    me 
Upon    the   sky. 

Swiftly    the   dawn    advanced, 

And    higher    rose,    and    still    more    faintly    shone. 
The    star-led    moon.     Then,   as    it    faded    out, 
Quenched    by    prevailing    day,    I    heard    one    sigh — 
A    sigh    so   charged    with    pathos    of  deep  joy, 
And    peace    ineffable,    that    memory 
Can    never   lose    the   sound  ;    and   all    was    past ! 

The    peaceful    summer-day   that   rose    upon 

This    night    of  trial    and    this    morn    of  grief, 

Rose  not    with    calmer  light    than    that    which    dawned 

Upon    my    spirit.       Chastened,    bowed,    subdued, 

I    kissed    the    rod    that    smote    me,    and    exclaimed  : 

"  The   Lord    hath    given  ;    the  Lord    hath    taken  away  : 

And    blessed    be    His    name !  " 

Rebellion    slept. 
I    grieved,    and    still    I    grieve  ;    but    with    a    heart 


Kathrina  281 

At    peace    with    God,    and    soft    with    sympathy 
Toward    all    my    sorrowing,    struggling,    sinful    race. 
My    hope,    that    clung    so    fondly    to    the    world 
And    the    rewards    of  time,    an    anchor    sure, 
Now   grasps    the    Eternal    Rock    within    the   veil 
Of  troubled    waters.      Storms    may   wrench    and    toss, 
And    tides    may    swing   me,    in    their    ebb    and    flow, 
But    I    shall    not    be   moved. 

Once    more  !    once    more 

I    shall    behold    her    face,    and    clasp    her   hand  ! 
Once    more — for   evermore  ! 

So    here    I    give 

The   gospel    of  her    precious    Christian    life. 
I    owe    it    to    herself,    and    to    the    world. 
Grateful    for   all    her    tender    ministry 
In    life    and    death,    I    bring    these    leaves,    entwined 
With    her    own    roses,    dewy    with    my    tears, 
And    lay    them    as    the    tribute    of  my    love 
Upon    the    grave    that    holds    her    sacred    dust. 


John  Moonry,  I'rint 


